Estimated Life Expectancy
by arcanelegacy
Summary: When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced into doing the unthinkable in order to save her. Chris/Jill, Pre RE5. AU now that RE5 is out. CONTAINS CHARACTER DEATH. COMPLETE, will NOT be continued.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I just wrote for fun.

**Summary: **When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced to do the unthinkable in order to save her.

**Rating: **T (mostly for swearing, because I like it when characters curse on occasion.)

**Author's Note:** This story contains SPOILERS for the RE5 trailers. If you have not seen these and do not wish to be spoiled for them, READ NO FURTHER. The entire premise of this story rides on what happens in those trailers and is designed to be a plausible explanation for the events depicted in them. This is also the last time I plan on posting an Author's Note at the beginning of the chapter.

Also: Many thousands of thanks to my two betas, Fiannan and Yumiko Kaze. Yumi is primarily my cheerleader and mostly checks my grammar and my ideas because she's not in the fandom, while Fiannan has been in charge of grammar, content, canon-checks and characterization (_especially_ characterization, because I am paranoid). So hundreds of thousands of thanks to them, and they deserve more than I could ever give. (So if you happen to spot either of them anywhere, give them additional lovings and say I sent you.)

* * *

**Estimated Life Expectancy**

**Chapter One**

As thrilled as he was to be going home, Chris was dreading seeing his kitchen. It had been two months since he'd last seen it, and even longer since he'd cleaned it. God only knew what had cultivated there while he'd been trudging around in the Middle East.

_Home still beats the desert,_ he thought, shifting in his cramped seat next to the window. What he and his team were doing in coach class on a commercial flight from Paris to the Dulles International was completely beyond him, but he wasn't complaining. Even these seats beat spending the flight in the belly of C-17 transport plane, which was how they'd gotten out to Camp Doha in the first place.

That had not been a fun trip. And the rest of the mission hadn't gone over much better, either.

_We'll get 'em, _Chris told himself, turning to the window. Through the occasional break in the clouds outside he could see patches of the blue-gray Atlantic below. Bright, early morning sunlight reflected off the white clouds, blinding him. He turned away, blinking as dark spots dappled his vision.

"I hear it's supposed to rain in D.C. for the next few days," a voice beside him said. Chris looked to his left as Lieutenant Derek Lancer dropped heavily into the aisle seat. Lancer was one of the only guys on their task force not working for the B.S.A.A. A young guy, he had an open, affable personality, a passion for all foods exotic and disgusting. He was also their weapons expert. "Never thought I'd say it, but I can't wait."

"Rain would be a nice change of pace," Chris said.

"Of course," Lancer continued, apparently talking more to himself than Chris (or the sleeping old man between them), "just about _anything_ would be nice after the desert. All that sand, man, and I was starting to go crazy." He shook his head and added, "Sure as hell won't miss those – what're they? Camel Spiders?"

"Yeah."

"Shit. Yeah, I won't miss those things either." He shuddered. "Like the bastard child of a scorpion and a spider, with a little bit of ant thrown in for the hell of it."

Chuckling, Chris nodded – that was a pretty apt description of the things, actually. He'd heard some of the horror stories from his friends in the Air Force even before going out to Camp Doha; finding that not all of the rumors were completely exaggerated had been a bit of a shock. A grin suddenly breaking onto his face, he said, "I wouldn't mind seeing the video Gomez has of Eppley running from Sarge again, though."

"Oh, God. Yes." Lancer cackled and twisted in his seat, looking up and down the aisle. "Bet Gomez's in the bathroom. I don't see him. Shit, I could use a good laugh, too." Lancer turned back around, running a hand along his the side of his shaved head. "God, that _was_ funny."

Their resident biochemist, a B.S.A.A. agent named Griff, dabbled in entomology sometimes and had gleefully caught the first Camel Spider he could find. He kept it in a Plexiglas container next to his bag whenever they made camp (it rode in the humvee with him otherwise) and called it Sarge.

One particularly hot, dry afternoon, Sarge escaped. His first order of business was to find the closest patch of shade. That shadow happened to belong to Eppley.

Eppley apparently didn't like bugs.

His reaction when he saw Sarge charging for him? Scream like a girl and run. Sarge followed right on his heels, zig-zagging after him as Eppley tore around the desert. Griff (having realized that his buddy was no longer in its little carrier) gave chase as well, bellowing for Eppley to _just stop running, he's only after your shadow!_

After that, the entire task force made sure to tell Eppley whenever they spotted a 'Spider coming. Even when there wasn't one.

"I'm sorry we didn't find anything," Lancer said suddenly. "It would've been nice to have _something_ to show for all the time we spent out there."

"It isn't the first time they've gotten away," Chris replied. In the years since the Spencer Mansion incident, Chris and the others had grown rather accustomed to failures like up every last sample of the T-virus lost (or sold on the black market) after Umbrella collapsed was a long, painful process, made even more so by the international laws the B.S.A.A. often had to work around just to investigate any reports of the virus.

"That's right." Lancer snapped his fingers. "You've been doing this for a while, haven't you?"

"Longer than I like to admit."

"How long?"

"Since ninety-eight."

Lancer stared, and Chris watched the gears turn in his head as the lieutenant did the math. "Oh…"

* * *

Hours later, the plane touched down on the wet, shiny tarmac of the Dulles International Airport. Rain pounded against the plane as it braked, slowed, and finally taxied into the airport. Chris fidgeted in his seat, fighting to wait until the light switched off and he was free to get off the plane. Screw the state of his kitchen; he just wanted to go _home_.

"Reckon we're lucky," Lancer said, leaning over Chris and the old man in the middle seat to get a good look out the window. "If this were any worse, I don't think we'd have been allowed to land."

"No," Chris agreed. The seatbelt light above his head went off with a distant ping and Chris rose to his feet. He didn't have a carry-on bag to be bothered with, so he slipped past Lancer with a wave (he'd see him at the B.S.A.A. main office the following day for debriefing, anyway, so there was no real need for formal good-byes) and quickly ducked past all of the other passengers on his way to the exit.

The airport was just as busy as he'd expected – busier, actually. As he disembarked a voice started announcing that all flights in and out of the Dulles were going to be either delayed or cancelled because of the rain. Chris couldn't help but grin to himself. Lancer was right. They were lucky.

Now all he had to do was grab his bag from baggage claim, go and release his car from its long-term parking prison, and he'd be at his apartment in no time.

And then he'd do the dishes.

Soon he was standing idly in front of the carousel, watching the same five bags parade around and around. They were getting soaked every time they disappeared outside.

_Why does this have to be so hard? _He moaned to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The same five bags were beginning to make their rounds again. _I just want to go home and get some sleep. _

He had only two bags – one small duffel bag stuffed with just a few changes of clothes, a notebook and a few pens, and some equipment; and his gun, kept in a hard case as per regulation. Everything else – his passport, B.S.A.A. ID, driver's license, cell phone, and a deck of playing cards – were kept in his pockets. He had quite a few; so going through security was a bitch.

All around him travelers were setting off for taxis and hotels or greeting their families. He heard laughter and joyful yells as some of his soldiers' kids spotted their parents through the throng.

_Oh,_ he thought suddenly, watching the carousel go around again. Still no sign of his bag, but he recognized Griff's stuff in the mix, meaning they were getting close. _My phone._ Pulling out his cell phone, he flipped it open and turned it on. He sat through its load-up and had just moved to close it and put it back in his pocket when it beeped at him – a different sound than the one he was used to hearing.

Looking at it more closely, he saw he'd missed a couple of calls. One was from Jill and the other was from a number he didn't recognize. Without bothering to check the voicemail one of the callers had left, he dialed Jill's number, pressed the phone to his ear, and waited.

No luck. He only got her voicemail.

_Must be at dinner,_ he thought, making a mental note to check his voicemail once he got home. He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, glancing once more at the carousel.

_Oh. There! There! _His gaze lit on his duffel as it went around the conveyer belt, and he lunged for it as it went by. When his gun case went by not long afterward, he grabbed it, too. He unzipped one of the side pockets in his duffel and dropped his passport and deck of cards in since he wouldn't need either for a while, then shouldered his duffel, picked up his gun case, and headed for the exit.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Chris found himself sitting in slow-moving traffic on the toll road heading into D.C. The rain had brought everything to a near standstill, and he could just hear the weatherman on the radio advising everyone to stay inside over the pounding drumbeats against the roof and windows of the car.

_At least I haven't started to miss the desert,_ he thought, smiling darkly to himself. He was drumming his hands on the steering wheel when his phone began to ring, vibrating in his pocket.

_Shit. This is why you put it in the cup holder, you idiot!_ Chris fumbled for his phone, fighting against the grip of his seatbelt. Counting off the rings – he only had seven before it went to voicemail – he yanked his phone from his pocket and flipped it open just in time. "Hello?"

"Chris Redfield?" The voice was fuzzy with static – likely interference from the rain – and not one he recognized.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Redfield, my name is Carla Vanachek. I'm a doctor at the George Washington University Hospital. I have you listed as the emergency contact for Jill Valentine. Is that correct?"

Chris balked, surprised. "Yes," he said, finally finding his voice again.

The doctor sounded relieved. "Okay. Good. Well, she's here at the hospital with us. We've been trying to reach you, and she's been asking for you."

"What?" Chris' brain had been stumbling over the 'emergency contact' bit, and was only just starting to catch up. "The hospital? Why?"

"It would really be best if you could come here, Mr. Redfield."

"Okay." Chris ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. I can…" He craned his neck, trying to see through the rain and over the rows of cars stopped in front of him. "I'm stuck in traffic right now, but tell her I'll be there as soon as I can. Even if I have to ditch my car and run there."

"I'll be sure to let her know. Thank you, Mr. Redfield."

Chris hung up his phone with just a faint, whispered goodbye. _The hospital? What is she doing there?_

And then he remembered the voicemail, and the call he'd missed from Jill. How long ago had she called? For one reason or another, his phone was incapable of telling him which number had left him a voicemail unless he was already listening to the message, so there was no way for him to know whether it was from Jill or the hospital. Flipping his phone open once more, he hastily punched in the buttons necessary to call his voicemail up, then pressed the phone to his ear.

"…Chris?" The voice was neither Jill's nor Dr. Vanachek's, and tinged with raw panic. Chris pressed his phone closer to his ear, squinting at the brake lights of the car in front of him. "God, I hope you're the person she was asking for. You, uh, don't know me but I'm one of Jill's – Jill Valentine's – neighbors. She's, uhm, she's…had an accident."

Chris's heart froze and his grip automatically tightened on his phone. _An accident?_ That was more than the doctor at the hospital had given him. _What kind of accident?_ A hundred different scenarios – none of them good, almost all of them involving Umbrella somehow – began running through his head, distracting him so fully he nearly missed the rest of the message.

"…She was asking for you, before she left with the EMTs. At least, I thought it was you…" The message cut off there, ending with a beep and the mechanical voice intoning that his inbox was full. Chris closed his phone without deleting the message and slipped it back into his pocket.

_Don't leap to conclusions,_ he told himself, watching the cars around him as they all inched forward. _The doctor said she's been asking for you. The message said she asked for you. It means she's conscious. It means it's not serious._

_Please, don't let it be serious._

* * *

What felt like an eternity later, Chris finally found himself at the hospital. He dumped his Jeep in the first available spot and rushed for the emergency entrance. Once inside, he scrambled for the intake desk, hitting it with all of the force of a small hurricane (and bringing with him nearly enough water to flood the lobby floor). "Jill Valentine, where is she?" He demanded.

The nurse behind the desk looked at him, her expression hard. Rising to her feet, she reached for a stack of charts piled before her and began rifling through them. Her movements were _painfully_ slow. Finally selecting one, she began to pull it from the stack…

…Only to stop when it was barely halfway out from under the pile. She looked back up at him, tilting her head to one side and scrutinizing him closely. "Are you family?"

"I'll take it from here, Lynn. That was my case." Chris and the nurse both looked up as a young woman wearing a doctor's coat extended one slim hand, reaching for the file. The nurse handed it over.

"You got here faster than I expected given the rain," the doctor said to Chris, offering him a warm smile as she pulled Jill's file in towards her chest. "I'm Dr. Vanacheck."

"Chris Redfield," Chris replied, for lack of a better idea what to say.

Dr. Vanacheck moved away from the desk, motioning with a tiny jerk of her head for Chris to follow. "You got here just in time. We just finished getting her a room, and were about to take her upstairs."

"She's being admitted?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's just for observation." Dr. Vanacheck stopped just outside a door.

Chris opened his mouth to ask for more information, but Dr. Vanacheck held up a hand and motioned towards the door. "She's just inside. I'm going to get an ETA on her trip upstairs, okay?" She smiled. Though it seemed bright and cheerful, Chris could see a bit of pain behind her eyes.

Then she strode past him and back down the hall, leaving Chris standing dumbly just outside room one-twelve.

The door was open just a crack, just enough that he could see inside. Jill was in a hospital gown, her lower body covered by a blue knit blanket. An IV line trailed from her arm to a bag hanging on a metal pole beside her bed, and she had a cardiac monitor clipped onto one hand. She was sitting upright and didn't _look_ hurt, though she was kind of pale. A girl of about twenty was sitting on the far side of the bed, sandwiched in the space between it and the wall.

She didn't look like a nurse.

"Who're you?" He demanded guardedly as he pushed into the room, glaring hard at this stranger.

She stared at him, clearly confused. Her tone was defensive as she said, "Jennifer Buxton? I'm her neighbor."

Jill looked at him. "She called nine-one-one, Chris. And _you_."

Oh. Well. Chris turned to apologize, but Jennifer was already waving him off. "Never mind. I'm gonna go grab some coffee." She gave Jill's shoulder a gentle squeeze before getting up and walking to the door. She paused just inside the doorway and pointed at Chris before adding, "I'll bring you decaf."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Chris and Jill alone in the room. Chris's gut twisted, and he turned back to Jill.

"You're slow," she chided with a small, forced smile. "Jen called you almost three hours ago."

_She's okay. She's gotta be okay. Jennifer probably just overreacted and called nine-one-one without really needing to. And they're just admitting her to cover their asses. _Having reassured himself, if nothing else, Chris raised a hand and said, grinning, "Hold on, I have the perfect excuse: I was on a plane. En route from Paris. And then there were a lotta people wrecked out on the highway. You'd think no one knew how to drive in the rain." Chris pulled up a metal stool and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at her again. "Jill, what happened?"

Her gaze dropped, her head and shoulders drooping as she shrank back into her pillow.

Chris felt his stomach sink. _Something is wrong. Oh, God, something really is wrong._

Softly, Jill said, "I had a seizure."

_A seizure? _"A _what_? But…why?"

"The doctors say it's not unusual."

"A _seizure_ isn't unusual? What the hell are they on?" Chris rose to his feet, ready to storm back to that goddamned intake desk and do some yelling. "A seizure's not unusual my ass. You're a perfectly healthy – "

Cutting him off, Jill said, "They say it's not unusual with what I have." Her hands – so much paler than usual, so much tinier than he remembered, so much weaker than they ought to be – tightened on the thin blanket covering her lower body.

All of the anger in him evaporated with that simple gesture.

Jill was scared. Whatever the hell was going on, she was fucking scared. Chris unclenched his fists, letting his arms fall limply at his sides. He found himself looking at her hands because he couldn't meet her eyes.

There was no good way this conversation could end: she was in the hospital without visible injuries after having a goddamned _seizure_, for God's sake.

Jill continued, "They ran some tests."

Chris didn't say a word. He just kept looking at her hands.

Her voice was thick with tears as she finally said, "It's cancer, Chris. I have cancer."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote this for fun.

**Summary: **When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced to do the unthinkable in order to save her.

**Rating/warnings: **T (mostly for swearing, because I like it when characters curse on occasion.) Again, this story contains SPOILERS for the RE5 trailers.

* * *

Estimated Life Expectancy

Chapter 2

A malignant, inoperable glioblastoma. Cancer. _Brain_ cancer. It had been two weeks since her diagnosis and Chris was still having trouble making sense of it. Was this really how she was going to die? Jill Valentine, dying of cancer? She was one of the _S.T.A.R.S._, for God's sake! She'd survived the Spencer Mansion and Raccoon City outbreaks, had helped take down one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the world, and _this_ was how she was going to die? Fucking _cancer_?

According to Doctor Morales, the oncologist Jill had started seeing after her diagnosis, the treatment options for this type of cancer were limited. Given its size and location, surgery was off the table. That left Jill with chemo and radiation therapies as her only real options. Even then, they could only do so much. They might buy her a few weeks, a few months, but there was no cure, and in the end…

In the end Jill was going to die.

_Fucking cancer. _

"Christopher Redfield. That you?"

Chris looked up, startled out of his reverie. A man in his late forties was standing just before him, wearing jeans and a red t-shirt. Though he'd gained a bit of a belly since Chris had last seen him, he still knew him – and knew him well.

"Barry Burton," he breathed, grinning. Getting to his feet (minding the extra large caffé Americano – his second that day – that he'd picked up from the coffee shop in the hospital lobby), he stepped into Barry's proffered hug. "Long time no see, Double-B."

"No kiddin'," Barry replied, letting him go and taking a step back. He looked Chris up and down. "You put on some muscle since I last saw you. They working you hard at the B.S.A.A.?"

"Not half as hard as the S.T.A.R.S. ever did."

Barry chuckled, looking Chris over again. "Might wanna check they aren't slipping you steroids there, Chris."

Now it was Chris's turn to laugh. Running a hand through his disheveled hair (he hadn't washed it since early yesterday), he said, "It's great to see you, Barry. Jill'll be real glad to see you, too."

Barry's expression faltered and just like that the good mood was gone. He turned and looked down the hall, towards Jill's room at the end.

"How is she?" His voice was heavy. He sounded old – much older than he really was – and worn.

Though they spoke often and he'd helped grease the bureaucratic wheels in Washington for them on several occasions, Chris hadn't actually seen Barry since they'd all escaped the mansion together. Now, studying his old friend, he was willing to argue that Barry had probably suffered the most of all of the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members at Umbrella's hands. After the Mansion incident, he and his family had fled to Canada. But when that still didn't feel safe enough the Burtons had begun moving almost constantly, hopping from one country to the next until Umbrella had finally collapsed. Even now, almost three years after Umbrella's collapse, the Burtons hadn't settled in any one place to stay for more than a year.

"When I left, she was a little out of it from the chemo," he said, unconsciously running his hands down his thighs as if wiping away sweat – or blood – from his palms. "But I think she's doing okay, overall." Chris flexed his jaw. "More or less."

Barry looked down the hall again. His face was set. "How long…?"

"If she responds well to treatment, maybe six months."

"Christ." Barry ran a hand down his face and tilted his head back so he was staring at the ceiling. "Christ."

"She's a fighter," Chris said, lifting his shoulders and dropping them in a feeble shrug. He knew he was stating the obvious – like Jill Valentine was going to give up, roll over, and die – but he had nothing else.

Barry didn't say anything for several seconds, seconds so long they each lasted a small eternity. He just kept staring at the damn ceiling.

_We can face down an army of fucking zombies,_ Chris thought suddenly, _but this…_

Barry interrupted before he could finish that thought. "You know, somehow I'd…" He took a deep breath, his eyes never once leaving the tiled ceiling, "Somehow I'd managed to convince myself that the next time I actually saw you two it'd be at your wedding_._"

Chris stiffened, his gaze locking on a poster hanging on the wall across from him. He stared without blinking at the bold words at the top, the ones telling him about the link between a patient's well being and a positive attitude, but he didn't reply. He _couldn't_ reply. What would he even say? 'Yeah, sorry about that, Barry, but I hadn't exactly figured she'd get cancer before we got the chance to tie the knot?'

He didn't even have to ask where Barry had gotten the idea of the two of them getting together. The S.T.A.R.S.' half of the bullpen back at the RPD Headquarters was pretty small, and it wasn't easy to hide _any_ kind of office-flirtation (which was how everyone knew when Joseph hooked up with the redhead from the Crime Scene Unit, for instance). If anything, he and Jill had gotten off easy: the others seemed to assume his and Jill's relationship (or eventual relationship) was a given, though Forest used to give him so much shit for not making a move on her.

Hell, even since _those_ days he'd only kissed her once, after fighting the T-A.L.O.S. in Umbrella's Russian-based facility. They'd both been sweaty and covered in blood – not all of it theirs – and so relieved that they'd both somehow managed to kill the damn thing that it just…happened. Jill had been knocked over and he'd gone to help her up and the next thing he knew he'd dragged her in close and he was pressing his lips against hers and she was kissing him back.

Then the rest of the team had arrived and she was only leaning against him, using him for balance against a badly twisted knee. The only reason he'd even been able to tell he hadn't hallucinated the whole damn thing was because she'd reached up and smoothed his hair – hair _she'd_ messed up – back down against his head as they'd followed the others back outside.

They hadn't mentioned it since.

And the truth was he'd been in love with her for a long time. He'd wanted to _marry_ her for a long time. Hell, he still did –there was no past tense about it. But the _last_ thing he wanted to do was give Wesker and the rest of Umbrella yet another tool they could use against them. Because given half a chance, they would. Wesker proved he was more than capable right there in the Spencer mansion, when he'd used Barry's family to blackmail him, and he had done it over and over again – with himself and Claire, and Claire and Steve, and even, arguably, Leon and Ada.

So he'd kept telling himself to wait. Wait until they'd taken down Umbrella. Wait until they'd destroyed Wesker. Wait until the T-Virus was just a nightmare they could leave behind. Wait until this whole fucking mess was finished. Wait and pray that she didn't find someone else in the meantime. And then when it was all over, he'd ask her out. They could have a normal relationship.

Jill getting cancer…_nobody _had planned on that.

_How could we? We'd always figured it'd be Umbrella. If we died because of anything, it would be because of Umbrella. _

_And now it's too late,_ he thought, his hands clenching into tight fists. _Now it's too late and there's nothing I can do and Jill is going to die._

_Fucking cancer. _

"I'm sorry, Chris," Barry said, interrupting again.

"No, it's okay." Chris took a deep, steadying breath, let his hands fall loose at his sides, and forced a smile. He jerked his head down the hall. "Come on. I told her I'd be back in just a few minutes – " He looked at his watch. " – almost twenty minutes ago."

* * *

The blinds were wide open in Jill's room, letting the warm spring sunshine in. Chris and Barry slipped quietly inside, taking care not to disturb her as they did. Jill's eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She looked like she was asleep, but as the door clicked behind them she asked, "You get lost or something?"

Chris grinned. "Nah. I ran into someone. Take a look."

Jill opened her eyes. "Barry!" she said, her expression brightening. She sat up, and Chris darted over to steady her. She leaned against him without question and continued, "It's been so long! How are you?"

"I should be asking _you_ that."

"I'm alive. That's good enough for now." Jill reached out for a hug, and when Barry obliged she added, "How're Kathy and the kids?"

Barry trotted over to the window and took a look out. There wasn't much to see from here – just a couple of other hospital buildings. They were still several blocks away from the closest of the D.C. sights, and though the Washington Monument was visible on good, clear days, it was too hazy to see it at all today. Turning back from the window, Barry said, "If they've been following Kathy's schedule, they should be enjoying the Lincoln memorial at the moment."

Even Chris was surprised at this. "They're _all_ in town?"

"Are you kidding? I couldn't keep them at home! Moira's hoping to use the trip as a way of getting some extra credit outta her history teacher, and Polly…" He motioned to Jill. "Polly wanted to see you."

"She's here?" Chris felt her lean away from him, peering around Barry towards the door. He tensed and almost reached for her, worried she might slip and fall off the bed, but she settled back against him after a moment.

Barry shook his head. "Not today. I hadn't heard much on how you were doing, so I told them to go and see the sights and came by myself today."

"Oh. They could've come. I'm okay. Just a little tired."

"Have the nurses been by since they hooked up your IV?" Chris asked.

"Camille came by just after you left." Jill smiled wryly and turned to Barry. Cupping a hand around her mouth she said conspiratorially, "She likes to call him the Mother Hen behind his back. For the way he's always hovering around."

Barry laughed, looking at Chris out of the corners of his eyes. "That sounds like him."

Chris opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. There wasn't really anything he could say to that. So he simply shrugged, smiling sheepishly.

Jill reached her good arm around his back and gave him a hug.

"Will that get me a hug every time?" he murmured. "'Cause I'd like that."

"We'll see."

"So tell me, Jill," Barry said suddenly (kindly reminding them both that he hadn't gone anywhere in the past thirty seconds), grabbing a stool from the corner of the room and setting it down closer to the bed. "What's the B.S.A.A. got you doing?"

"When I'm not here? Same kind of work Chris does. Since we're both high-grade special agents – which is just their way of saying we've got more experience with Umbrella and the T-virus than everyone else _combined_ – we don't get called in on every case. Just the ones that get flagged as high risk. We don't even get to work together half the time, anymore." She shook her head. "Half the nation's convinced a simple head cold's gonna turn out to be another outbreak."

"And the rest of the world isn't much better. I just got back from a mission in the Middle East with my team," Chris said. "We got some reports of some possible labs out in Iraq and Afghanistan – not Umbrella, but it's not that hard to pick up a sample of the T-Virus on the black market."

Barry nodded.

"Why, Barry? You thinkin' of joining up?"

"Dunno. It's possible. I'd love to stop moving around so much – it's not a good life for the girls." Barry shrugged, shifting his weight on the stool. "Have either of you heard from Rebecca?"

"Yeah," Chris said. "She joined the Alliance about two years ago. Been working with the biochemistry unit, trying to figure out just what the hell T is. She hasn't changed much."

Chris would have gone on; told Barry more about what Rebecca had been up to, but he was interrupted by a faint knock on the door. It opened, and a short, plump, Hispanic woman stepped inside.

"Oh," she said, her gaze falling on Barry, "And here's another one. Jilly-bean, you've sure got a lot of friends."

"Hey, Camille. This one's Barry. We used to work together. Barry, this is my nurse, Camille."

"_One_ of her nurses, at least. We've got a small army here." Camille hooked a loose strand of curly black hair behind her ear and put her hands on her hip. "How you feeling, kiddo?"

"I'm all right," Jill said with an exasperated sigh.

"Don't gimme that tone," Camille said. Her voice was stern, but she was smiling. It faded quickly, however, as she added, "You're gonna get people asking you up and down how you're doing, and being able to say you're all right is a good thing. You're not nauseous at all? Feeling any pain?"

"No."

"Good."

"I think she looks a little pale," Chris said.

Jill gave him a look. "I'm fine," she insisted.

"I'm on his side for once. You do look pale." Camille checked the IV, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "You might be getting a little anemic, girl. I don't want to do it now, since we've got a bit of time before you can even think about getting outta here and back to your real life, but I'm going to need to take some blood before you leave tomorrow."

Chris demanded, "Why aren't you doing it now? If she _is_ anemic, it's better to know sooner, isn't it? Then you can do something about it."

"I _wanted_ to give her a little longer with you and Barry, without a nurse getting in the way." Camille sighed. "Jill, I don't know how you put up with this one."

Jill chuckled and said softly, "Thanks, Camille, but you might as well draw it now. He's not going to stop until you do."

Wagging a finger in his general direction (since she was way too short to waggle it in his face), Camille went on, "You just make sure you don't tire her out too much, you understand? She needs someone to support her, not hen-peck the doctors about every little thing. We got support groups if you want the chance for all of that. You understand?"

"Yes, Camille."

"Good. 'Cause I haven't got the time to make sure you don't run everyone else completely ragged."

"I won't, Camille."

She snorted. To Jill, she said, "You have fun with the boys. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Shortly after Camille had come in to check on Jill, Chris had watched Barry slip off his stool and step out into the hallway. Now that she was leaving, he came back inside. Chris saw him slip his phone back into his pocket.

"That was Kathy," he said.

"You gotta go?" Jill asked. Her voice was softer than it had been, and Chris realized that the circles under her eyes were growing even more pronounced.

"Yeah." Barry leaned in and gave her a hug. "I'll be back in the morning, if you're feeling up to it."

"Bring Polly along."

"I will." Barry stepped back. Meeting Chris's eyes, he continued, "Kathy wanted you to come along with us. We're going to dinner."

"Oh. Barry, tell her thanks, but – " Chris looked from Barry to Jill and back again. She was looking worse by the minute.

"She insisted. Told me to use force if I have to. She wouldn't budge even when I told her that force probably means nothing against you."

"Go, Chris," Jill said sternly. At least, she tried to be stern, but her voice wavered and cracked.

"Jill, I don't want to leave you…"

"Chris." Jill's voice was still shaky, but sharp. "Stop. It's okay. I'm all right." She sank back against the pillows. "You should go to dinner. Go to dinner and go home and get some sleep."

"I'm not leaving."

Jill would have none of this tonight. Pressing one hand over her eyes she said, "Chris, _go_. I'm not going to die tonight. But I would like to get some rest."

His stomach twisted at her words. He wanted to smile and mean it. But he could only force the expression, not the emotion, as he asked, "Do you promise?"

"Get out. I'll see you later."

Chris slunk towards the door after Barry, but lingered just inside the doorway. "Tomorrow."

She waved a hand – details, details. But her eyes, peering out at him from under her hand, were brighter than they had been and her smile stronger as she said, "Fair enough."

Chris smiled. _I love you, Jill Valentine. _

He wished he could bring himself to say the words. Now, before it was too late.

* * *

When he finally got back to his apartment that night, full and so bone-tired he almost fell asleep right there in his parked Jeep, Chris planned to shower, put his feet up for a few hours (maybe watch some TV for a while, since he was shelling out an arm and a leg a month for it), and go to bed – in that order. As soon as he opened the door, however, he noticed three things very quickly. First, the lights in his living room were on. Second, his kitchen was spotless. Third, his sister was sitting on the couch, watching some cop show on TV.

"I was wondering where you were," Claire said, getting to her feet.

"Claire?" Chris frowned, squinting at her in confusion. "When did you get here? How did you get in?"

"It's nice to see you, too, Chris." She put a hand on her hip and held up one of his spare keys – the one he liked to keep in the never-fixed light by his door. "You need to find better places to hide these things. I'm going to assume you've got the other in the vent just outside the door?"

"That's…none of your business."

"It is if I could find it."

"You're my sister. I'd expect _you_ to be able to find it." Chris was tempted to take the key back from Claire, but decided to let her keep it. Without it, there was a good chance she'd steal his set. And he needed those keys.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then abruptly crossed the room and dropped onto the ottoman and began unlacing his shoes.

Claire said suddenly, "I told you I was coming. Don't you remember?"

Chris did not remember having that conversation. At all. Actually, he didn't remember having any contact with his sister since before his mission out in the desert. Running a hand down his rough, stubbly face, he asked heavily, "What day?"

"Last Monday." Claire's voice was soft.

Oh. Monday…Chris wracked his stress-addled, sleep-deprived, caffeine-overloaded brain, trying to remember. _Jill started chemo that Monday._

No wonder he didn't remember the conversation. Well, even if he couldn't remember having it, it still sounded like something he'd say. He wouldn't turn down his sister, anyway.

"You look like hell," Claire noted, by way of changing the subject.

"Really? Because I always thought women dug the scruffy look." Chris forced a joking smile as he finally reached out to his sister for a hug.

Claire rolled her eyes, but accepted the hug anyway. "Have you been sleeping?"

Chris gave his head a little shake and replied, "Is it that obvious?"

"Don't forget – I spent the first twelve years of my life with you. I know you."

"You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine."

"You are _not_ fine. I might be your little sister but that doesn't mean I'm stupid or…or blind or…" Claire trailed off as Chris cocked an eyebrow at her before throwing up her hands and snapping, "It's kind of an instinctive thing, okay? I can't help it." After a brief pause, she added, "You _need_ to get some sleep. And eat right. How long had that bread been sitting there, anyway? It was a mold factory. If any of that was penicillin you could've made a small fortune off it."

"I take it you cleaned the kitchen, then?"

"Of course I cleaned it. It was _disgusting._ I thought I saw it move when I walked in."

Chris only nodded, dropping his head and staring at his hands. Though he loved that she'd come to see him, and was glad to have her, having Claire around wasn't going to do much to help. Between her and Barry it was like the start of a reunion of all the survivors of Umbrella's horrors. But they were only here because Jill was dying. The countdown had begun and everyone was just trying to make the most of what little time they had left.

Claire came over to the ottoman and dropped down beside him. She put an arm around his back, hooking it over his right shoulder while she leaned against his left. "I'm sorry, Chris. I'm so, so sorry." When he didn't reply, she asked, "How is she?"

"Anemic and hating the chemo. She was throwing up when I called at dinner."

"Don't they have drugs to help treat the nausea?"

"Yeah, but it's the first time she's ever reacted badly to it. The other times, she was just fine…" He took a breath, but his chest was tight and only let in a little air. His stomach twisted violently and Chris covered his face with this palms, dragging them down along his cheeks, before he tried to breathe again. This time it came easier, but he still felt sick. "Barry and his family got in yesterday, and Barry came in to see Jill today. You remember them?"

"Yeah." Claire had met the Burtons once, way back in the day, at one of the RPD's annual picnics. "They had two little girls."

"Moira and Polly. They're teenagers, now." He trailed off, and they sat in silence for a few moments. "You been talking to Leon much?"

Claire sighed. "No more than usual."

"Why don't you ask him to lunch or something?"

"Relationship advice. Coming from _you_." Claire chuckled and shook her head. She didn't actually give him an answer right away, and Chris wondered if he'd hit a nerve accidentally.

He was just about to apologize when she cut him off, saying, "Leon's still working on the A's, and hasn't even found anyone in the B's yet. I'm a C. It'll be a while."

"What?"

"If you don't get it, I'm not going to spell it out for you. Oh. That was a terrible pun." Claire stood up and stretched, yawning. "I dumped my stuff in the other bedroom."

"That's fine."

"Good. I'm stealing the bathroom for a bit."

"All right."

Claire shuffled off towards the bathroom, leaving Chris alone with his thoughts.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned to the TV, staring at it blankly before getting up and flopping out on his couch, grabbing the remote as he fell. He flicked through channels, lingering for just a few seconds longer on the news. He watched the stocks scroll past on the bottom of the screen. Almost everything was down, but that was nothing unusual any more. Somehow, Umbrella had almost single-handedly brought on the economic boom of the early nineties, and when it collapsed the economy had taken a turn for the worse. Things had been slowly picking back up when Harvardville happened.

_Just one fucking thing after another, isn't it?_ With a growl, Chris turned off the TV and threw the remote at the chair. It bounced off the back cushion and onto the floor, skidding to rest somewhere under the ottoman. He did not move to get it.

Closing his eyes, Chris lay back against the couch's arm, covering his face with one of his own. The Umbrella Management Training Facility and the Spencer Mansion. Raccoon City, Rockfort Island, Antarctica, Russia, India, Harvardville. And those were only the confirmed outbreaks – for all he knew at the moment, there'd been more. Hell, for all he knew there was going to be another tomorrow, or next week, or maybe next year. Maybe New York City was going to be the next to fall to the virus. Or Seattle. Or some other major city on the globe.

And for all he knew, the next one wasn't going to be about Raccoon City, or a ploy to prove some vaccine worked, or some accident during Umbrella's mad scramble to save itself. The next outbreak could very well be a bona fide terrorist attack, committed by someone who'd bought up some sample of the damn virus from the black market. This was exactly why there was an entire section of the B.S.A.A. devoted to simply _watching_ the black market and tracking all the shit sold there.

All he _did_ know was that it wasn't going to end soon enough. It wasn't going to end soon enough and even if they managed to catch Wesker _tomorrow_ he didn't know if he was going to have enough time left to make up for all the years he'd _wasted_.

_There has to be something else we can do._ That's all there was to it. _Something more. There has to be a cure out there, somewhere._

For a long time he didn't move from the couch. He heard Claire leave the bathroom and come out into the living room, and he still didn't move. He heard her slip around the room, switching off the lights, then close the door to the guest bedroom, and still he didn't move.

Finally, he found himself on the very edge of sleep, his mind replaying everything that Wesker and Umbrella had ever done. His last, feeble thoughts were coming in to him in an incoherent jumble when one image – a memory – floated right to the front and center of his mind. It was a memory of Wesker, lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor, back in the Spencer Mansion's underground labs. He was dead, a gaping hole laid open in his chest. Even in death, his dark sunglasses where still, somehow, undisturbed.

After learning everything that Wesker had done to betray them over the course of the night, Chris couldn't say he'd felt any remorse at all for his former captain's death.

Except…

Wesker wasn't dead. Not anymore.

Chris's exhaustion suddenly dissolved. He bolted upright, staring hard down the short, dark hallway that led to his bedroom.

_If Wesker did it…_

Chris rolled off the couch and began to pace back and forth along the swatch of carpet between the couch and the coffee table.

_We don't know _what_ changed Wesker._ But it _had_ to be something. They – he and Rebecca and maybe some of the rest of the B.S.A.A. – could figure out what it was, and they could find some way of using it to save Jill. After all, Wesker was the one and only survivor of some sort of T-virus-based genetic manipulation.

He was all they had.

_No,_ Chris realized with a start. _Not the only one. Wesker's _not_ the only one._

_Steve. _According to Claire, Steve had survived the initial infection. And what had killed him, in the end, wasn't the virus. Alexia herself had done it.

And what had Wesker said about Steve?

"_Steve might come back just like I did."_

And just like that, there it was. The solution. The way to save Jill.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who reviewed my last chapter! Hearing from you all gives me warm fuzzies and helps bolster my confidence in my writing. I hope I managed to please you all with this chapter!

Again: Many more thousands of thanks to my two betas, Fiannan and Yumiko Kaze. Yumi helped me rewrite the ending for this chapter (it was originally a lot longer than it is here, but I think this new version has more of a punch) and Fiannan caught me in a couple of canon errors I've since fixed – as well as a couple of grammar and syntax flubs.

And, also: the "Double-B" nickname is meant to be a shoutout to SexGodClari over on LJ, who is one of my favorite writers for this fandom. She posted a series of absolutely AMAZING Billy/Rebecca fics over in the Billy/Rebecca community over there, and though she (sadly) doesn't write for the fandom I still hold out hope she reads for it, and can see that there are still lurker fans of her work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing for the time being. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote this for fun only.

**Summary: **When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced to do the unthinkable in order to save her.

**Rating/warnings: **T (mostly for swearing). Again, this story contains SPOILERS for the RE5 trailers, though that point is probably moot by now.

* * *

**Estimated Life Expectancy**

**Chapter 3**

Considering how badly he'd overslept that morning, Chris couldn't help but think he should be at least a _little_ more rushed as he started through his morning routine (shower, shave, lunch, Jill). But, as he stepped under the rush of steaming water in his shower, he couldn't bring himself to move any faster.

Besides, the shower felt really, really good. And it gave him the perfect opportunity to laugh at himself some more.

It had been a week since he'd come up with the insane idea to use the T-virus, and almost as long since he'd axed it based on its stupidity alone. Because, really? It was such a bad idea that there were no words. For fuck's sake, he knew better than that! No good had _ever_ come from the virus, and no good at all would come from injecting _Jill_ with it. Hell, even if Rebecca or someone else managed to make some amazing breakthrough with it and changed it into something useful, he didn't know if he could bring himself – or _anyone_, for that matter – to be its first test subject.

_God_. Chris flicked water from his face as he stepped back under the spray, wincing when some shampoo got into his eyes and made them burn. He rubbed at them with his fingers. _I would have to be _really_ desperate to resort to that._

He yawned suddenly, shaking his head. It felt like someone was tap dancing right on top of his brain, but that was probably because it was almost noon and he hadn't had his coffee yet. As he reached over and turned off the water, he thought,_ I should call Claire. Have her home some coffee. _

She hadn't been in the apartment when Chris finally stumbled out of his room that morning (having managed to somehow find his way there the night before). Instead, there was a neon green Post-It note on the fridge, telling him that she'd gone out to get some food – _decent_ food (her words, not his) – and that she'd be back before noon. Claire had also written that she hoped he was awake by the time she got back, so they could go and see Jill.

Chris smiled as he finished towel-drying his hair. His sister knew him too well. Stepping onto the fuzzy bathmat next to the shower stall, he tossed the towel over the door. He pulled on his boxers before stepping over to the sink and grabbing his shaving gel and razor.

_I hope Jill's doing all right._ He hadn't called the hospital yet (he'd only gotten out of bed about twenty minutes ago, and it was never a good idea for him to try and do anything productive before he'd had a chance to wake up). He really hoped she was doing better – the last time she'd been in, they'd been diagnosed her with neutropenia; meaning her white blood cell count was dangerously low. Chris wasn't completely sure how everything worked, but it meant she was at risk of getting sick. They'd been working on bringing her cell counts up for the past few days, and she'd gone in overnight to potentially start the chemo again.

_Barry's there,_ he reminded himself as he lathered up his face. He'd almost forgotten how much he liked it when he was clean-shaven. _And if anything happened he'd call you._ _Get a grip._

They'd actually discussed it the night before. Rather, Kathy had told him quite firmly that if he showed up at the hospital before noon she'd march him straight out the door again. Or something; he'd barely been able to hear her threats over the girls' laughter. Seems they enjoyed watching their mother lecture someone else for a change.

Even from the bathroom, he could hear the front door open and swing close again. A few seconds of silence followed, then he heard Claire call, "Chris?"

"I'm up," Chris called back through the bathroom door. "Be out in a sec!" He quickly finished putting on his clothes, hung his towel up on the rack where it actually belonged, and left the bathroom.

"You look better," Claire said, grinning, when she saw him.

"I feel better," he replied, his gaze catching the half-dozen or so plastic bags gilled with food sitting just inside the front door. "Is this everything?"

"Yeah. Leave 'em, though, I'll take care of it." She looked at him, her expression a little like their old dog's had been when he was hoping to avoid trouble after digging in their mother's garden. "I borrowed the Jeep."

Chris waved her off, sliding onto one of the stools he kept at the bar. "I figured. No biggie."

"I thought you didn't like it when people touched your Jeep."

"You're an exception. _You_ know how to drive it." He craned his neck, peering at the bags near Claire's feet. "Any orange juice in there? I drank the last of it yesterday."

"I saw. Here." Claire plunked a fresh carton down on the counter and slid it towards him, along with a clean cup she rescued from the dishwasher.

"Thanks, Claire," he said as he poured himself a glass. Sure, it wasn't coffee, but nothing woke him up in the morning like a little orange juice.

"Any time." She began loading up the freezer with foods Chris barely got a glance at as they went from the bag into storage. "Someone's gotta look after you."

"You're my little sister. _I'm _supposed to be the one looking after _you_."

Claire shot him a look. "Please don't tell me you spent the morning getting mopey and sentimental." She paused suddenly, her brow furrowing. "Is that your phone? It's not mine."

"What?" Chris turned his head back and forth, listening hard.

She was right. His phone must have fallen out of his pocket while he'd been lying on the couch the night before, because it he could hear vibrating from somewhere under there. Chris darted for it – a few quick strides and he was ducking to grab it out from under the couch – but he was too late. The phone stopped ringing just before he got his hands on it.

He flipped the phone open and checked the caller ID. Barry. And before that, the hospital.

His stomach sank. _Oh, no. _

_Calm down,_ he ordered himself. _You can't always assume the worst-case scenario. They might just be wondering where the hell you are, since you're, like, four hours late. _He hit redial on Barry's number and waited.

"Chris." Something _was_ wrong. He could hear it in Barry's voice.

"What is it, Barry? What's wrong with Jill?"

"It's…" Barry trailed off, and Chris could almost see the worry lines on his face growing deeper by the second. "She's bad, Chris."

He heard a jingle and whipped around – Claire was holding out his keys. Chris jerked his head, and she threw them his way. He caught them in his hand, wrapping his fingers around them tightly. The keys' teeth dug into his palm, but not deep enough to draw blood. Motioning for Claire to follow him, he headed for the door. "I'm coming, Barry. I'm on my way."

* * *

The skies were beginning to cloud up again as he whipped his Jeep into his spot in the parking lot. Thanks to the clouds rolling over the sun, the world shifted from light to dark as he charged the hospital's doors. The weatherman had said something about another storm cell coming in that afternoon, but Chris hadn't really been paying attention so he couldn't say said when or how bad it was going to be.

_Let it come,_ Chris thought, jogging past the elevator (no time to waste waiting) and bounding up the stairs two at a time. He didn't know if Claire was behind him and he didn't care. She'd find him.

Right now, he just needed to see Jill.

_Don't let it be serious,_ he begged, skidding around the corner and hauling for her room. _Please don't let it be that bad._

Jill wasn't there. Her bed was unmade and all her things were right where they'd been when he left the night before – the duffel with a change of clothes still sitting by her bed – but she was gone.

He stood just inside the door, staring, confused. "Jill?"

No answer, but he hadn't really expected one. Chris stuck his head back out into the hall, hoping to spot a nurse or a doctor or someone who might be able to tell him what the fuck was going on here. The halls were mostly empty, though. They often were. The oncology wing was surprisingly quiet, even on its worst days.

_Where would she have gone?_ _Where's Barry?_

"Chris!"

Claire had finally caught up with him. Chris winced, suddenly feeling guilty for running off. He turned, saying, "I'm sorry, Claire, I – "

She cut him off by pressing his phone into his hand. "Barry called again. He, Kathy, and the girls are up on the fifth floor."

"Did he say why?"

"Just that he wants us to meet him there."

Barry and his family were sitting in a waiting room on the far side of the fifth floor. Camille and Dr. Morales were with them, and they were all talking softly. Barry kept looking at his feet, it seemed like Kathy was doing most of the talking. The girls were a few rows over – close enough that Chris imagined they could hear everything being said, but not so close they might be tempted to interrupt. Aside from their little group, the room was empty. Everyone else was probably visiting family, safely in their rooms.

Where Jill should be.

Chris didn't even bother with formal greetings. As he slowed from his jog, Claire following closely, he demanded, "Where's Jill? She's not in her room…"

Dr. Morales stood up. The oncologist was an older man with black-rimmed glasses and thick, graying hair, and Chris guessed that his age landed somewhere between his late fifties and early sixties. He was a nice guy, warm and friendly despite his professionalism, but Chris had noticed that he sometimes had issues explaining things. "I had her moved upstairs. She's in isolation."

His blood ran cold. "What? Why?!"

"Last night she started showing signs of an infection."

"An infection? What kind of infection?"

"It could be anything," Camille said, taking over with a look at Dr. Morales. "She might just have a cold. But with her white counts as low as they are, even a cold is bad juju. We knew this was gonna happen and we were watching for it, but…"

"You knew she was at risk?!"

"We did. _And _we gave her a booster when her counts started to drop last week. You were

here when we gave it to her. But Jill went ahead and lost white cells anyway."

"Chris," Dr. Morales said. He met Chris's eyes and held them. "Jill is very, very sick. Her tumor is in a very advanced state. Anything we do for her carries risks that it doesn't for any other patient _because_ of how advanced the cancer is. If she hadn't insisted on trying chemotherapy and radiation, I wouldn't have recommended it at all. But I promise you, we are going to do everything we can to make her well again. Right now, we just want to get rid of this infection and get her cell counts back up."

"What about the chemotherapy?" This time it was Barry asking. He'd been so quiet Chris had almost forgotten he was even there.

Dr. Morales shook his head. "The chemotherapy drugs we've been giving her are immunosuppressive. If we keep her on them, she's only going to get worse."

Barry nodded, leaning his forehead against his wife's when she reached up and put an arm around his shoulder.

Chris looked away, his gaze falling on the open window. He had read about them – the immunosuppressive drugs, that is. Most chemotherapy drugs were immunosuppressive to a degree, at least as far as he'd found. It was just one of the side effects. In their efforts to kill off the tumor cells, they sometimes killed off the good cells, as well. He'd meant to look up Jill's specific drug cocktail and see what their specific side effects were, but he hadn't managed to get around to it yet.

Without turning from the window, where the first fat raindrops were beginning to splatter against the glass, Chris took a deep breath and asked, "Can I see her?"

"You can't go _in_ to visit her yet, but you can see her." Camille stood up. "Come on, I'll take you."

She led him down a hallway lined with glass-walled rooms. Some had patients in them, but several were empty – and, to be honest, Chris liked them better when there wasn't someone trapped inside.

"You must be really sick to wind up here." he said as they passed by a tiny room with a young kid inside – boy or girl, Chris couldn't say.

"You're either really sick or you might get that way," Camille agreed. "Don't you worry about Tyler, though. He's going to be getting a bone marrow transplant this afternoon, and then we're hoping he'll be fine. I'm surprised his brother isn't here yet. Zack's a mother hen just like you, only worse." She looked at him, waiting for a reaction, but Chris didn't offer one.

"Jill's just up here."

Like the others on the floor, Jill was being kept behind glass. Chris balked a few feet away from the room. Even from there he could see the deep, dark purple circles under her eyes.

"God," he breathed.

"She looks worse with the tubes and the mask on. She was talkin' to us just this morning."

"When…?"

Camille bit her lip as she thought. "Mary said she was starting to feel sick around midnight – like she had the flu."

"You didn't think it was just another side effect of the chemotherapy?"

"Honey, have you ever had the flu? There's feeling like you're gonna be sick, and then there's feeling like you've got the flu. Besides, she wasn't on the chemo last night. We stopped that, remember? Last night she was just on the booster."

"I didn't know _any_ of that."

"That's because we've all gotten very good at hiding these sorts of things from you. Jill knew what was going on, of course."

"That…doesn't seem right. Or fair. Or legal."

"Given how you behave? Any jury would side with us. I never lied to you, anyway. I just didn't tell you everything."

"That's lying by omission."

"Actually, it's called HIPAA."

She had him there. Deciding not to push the subject any further, Chris asked, "Do you think it is just the flu?"

"Could be. Could also be a systematic infection – some other bug harassing her whole body."

Chris shook his head. Now he didn't want to know. He shifted, watching Jill breathe. "How do you do it, Camille? How do you come in here every day, knowing there's a good chance these people aren't going to make it?"

"You're a soldier." When he looked at her, startled, she waved a hand at him. "No, don't look at me like that. I'm not dumb. My brother's in the Air Force; you move like he does. But tell me: how do you go off to fight when you know that not all your buddies are going to come back with you?" She paused, watching Jill breathe for a moment, then said softly, "For me, I go in hoping I can either help them or hold them while they go."

The pager at her hip began to buzz, and she looked at it. "Gotta go save one of my nurses. Sounds like the other mother hen is finally here, and he's trying to make up for lost time." She touched his arm lightly and flashed a smile as she left, nearly colliding with Barry as he came around the corner.

Chris forced a smile as Barry joined him just outside Jill's room. Neither said anything for a few minutes. They both just watched Jill.

Barry broke the silence first. "She was already in here when I came by, Chris. I called you as soon as I found where they'd moved her."

"I know." Chris let one hand fall from the glass, but left the other resting there. "Did you see where Claire went?"

"She's with Kathy and the girls. I think they decided to go see the FDR memorial."

"In the rain?"

Barry scratched at the back of his head. "Well, they went somewhere."

Chris nodded, closing his eyes. He was tired again. Flexing and then clenching his jaw, he leaned his forehead against the glass. But he didn't look at Jill, sleeping in the room. "What do we do now, Barry?"

"I don't know."

"I don't, either." That was the problem. There were no solutions. No answers. No way to change her fate. Just modern medicine, which could give a man a robotic heart but couldn't find a way to cure cancer.

_There is one idea,_ he thought, dropping his other hand from the glass and lifting his gaze. _There _is_ one idea we haven't really tried._ It was stupid, it was insane, it probably wasn't going to work – but what could looking into hurt, after all?

Chris pushed away from the glass. "Barry, I've got to go."

"What? Where, Chris…?"

"I'm going to go see Rebecca. Call me if anything changes. I'll be back as soon as I can."

* * *

He was standing just outside Rebecca's apartment complex when he finally gave her a call. It was only about four-thirty in the afternoon, but it was so dark and overcast it felt like much later. He knew he probably looked suspicious, making phone calls while standing outside in a torrential downpour, but he didn't give a rat's ass.

"Rebecca?" _Get an answer,_ he told himself firmly._ For Jill. _

_So you can at least tell her you tried._

"Chris?" Rebecca replied, her voice slow and groggy. It sounded like hse'd been sleeping before he called, but she woke up quickly enough. Her voice was sharp when she continued, "Did something happen to Jill?"

He'd tell her everything when he got inside. "Look, I know it's kinda sudden, but have you got a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something."

He heard the door unlock with a heavy clunk as she buzzed him in, not long after he was sitting at her kitchen table.

After he told her what was going on with Jill, he started to ask about her job. She'd joined the B.S.A.A. a year before the Harvardville incident, and now she worked at their labs, studying the virus. Thanks to a couple of black market deals inspired by WilPharama, the Alliance had managed to get its hands on samples. This included several strains of G, as well as a number of viruses tweaked by a few enterprising scientists hoping to make big money selling the samples to terrorists.

Chris was careful to keep his questions hypothetical. One wrong slip, one detail too many, and Rebecca was likely going to figure out what he was thinking. Not _planning_, not yet – just thinking. He'd only come up with a rough idea of the next step on the drive through the rain. It wasn't even worthy of the title of plan yet, and it would only work if this idea of his were at all possible.

Unfortunately, Rebecca hadn't lost any of her genius over the years.

"You aren't planning on using this on Jill, are you?" She asked with a little half smile, stunning Chris into silence.

His stunned silence gave him away.

Her expression changed almost immediately: her face fell, first into horror, then into fury, then to a mix of fury and disgust. "No," she said vehemently, recoiling from him. "No!" She stood up and began to pace around the room, gesturing wildly. "Chris, that's _nuts_. Completely nuts! Did you even stop to _think _about this? About the consequences? Did you even hear what you were _saying?_"

Chris didn't reply.

She broke it down for him. "You want to infect _Jill_. Jill Valentine! Our Jill! _Your_ Jill! With the T-virus! There's just…there aren't…it's just…" Rebecca pressed one hand to her forehead, shaking her head. "Chris, that virus destroys lives. It's ruined ours, and Barry's and Claire's and Leon's and B…"

She stopped herself suddenly and shook her head again. "And that's not even getting into the number of people it's actually killed! Do I need to start listing some of them? Let's see, there's Fo…"

Chris cut her off. "I _have_ thought about it, Rebecca. More than you're giving me credit for."

"Yeah? Well, you'd be violating everything from the Nuremberg Code to the new FDA mandates if you did this. Did you consider that?"

He exhaled sharply, the air in his lungs escaping in a rush, and ran a hand through his hair. "I know. I know! But Jill is _dying_. I just…I want to know if there's a way _to_ save her."

Rebecca looked at him, her expression torn between fury and heartbreak. He could almost see the struggle going on inside her – how she wanted to help Jill, but experience and science told her no, absolutely not, don't even _think_ about using T to do it. She wanted to use this virus for something other than causing death, but knew it might be days or weeks or months or years before she came up with something useful – days and weeks and months and years that Jill didn't have.

He could guess all of this because he'd gone through the same debate with himself every day for the past week.

"And you think, somehow, that T might be able to help." Her voice was heavy, and her expression hard.

Chris stared evenly back. _How is this the same Rebecca I was in the Spencer Mansion with?_

She broke eye contact first, sliding back into her seat. "Okay. Okay. I'll play this game. I don't like it, but…" She snorted, then thought for a minute. "I wouldn't be able to engineer anything good, not in time, so you'd have to use what we've already got. And, uh, the closest we'd get using virus that's already out there is…is _Wesker_. And we don't know _what_ changed Wesker."

If she thought he had come completely unprepared, she was wrong. "Steve turned out okay. Steve Burnside."

Rebecca rounded on him again. "I hope you haven't mentioned that to your sister." She studied the clock on the wall, watching the minutes tick by. It was getting late. "Besides, Steve died before he and the virus really… And we don't even have a sample of T-Veronica. Wesker has the only samples."

"The only samples that we know of."

She looked at him. Her voice was sharp as she said, "What, you think he's sold some of it?"

"Maybe not him. Maybe someone he worked with."

"So you think it might be on the black market somewhere."

"The G-Virus was," Chris reminded her. "It's possible, at least."

"Possible. Not probable." Rebecca sighed heavily. "Okay. Fine. Let's say that you get a sample of T-Veronica somehow. That shady black market contact of yours, or something."

"Rodriguez."

"Yes, him. Let's say you get a sample of T-Veronica from him and let's say I could take a look at how it and see how it's different from T or G or any of those other strains. I still can't guarantee that it would do anything good. For anyone. It _might_, but…" She trailed off and took a deep breath. "That virus, Chris. Marcus and Spencer made sure nothing good would come of it. They made _damn_ sure."

"I know. But…maybe it's because it's never been in the right hands before." Chris stood up, ready to leave. He'd gotten what he came for and then some, and it was time to get back to Jill.

This time, when he met her eyes, she looked like she was about to cry. "Hey, now, don't…"

She shook her head vigorously and waved him off.

_She keeps that up, she's gonna give herself whiplash. Or something._

He was almost to the door when she called out to him, "Chris. Does she know?"

There was something in him, right then, that strongly felt that Rebecca was asking him if Jill knew he loved her.

"No," he replied, starting down the stairs. "I haven't told her anything."

Funny how that answered both of the questions she could have been asking.

Chris had barely turned off of Rebecca's street when he pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. Glancing from the rain drenched road (though the rain itself had stopped about an hour ago) to his phone and back again, he quickly punched in a number.

He pressed the phone to his ear, waiting, drumming his thumb against the steering wheel and begging the call to go through. He was calling one of the B.S.A.A.'s contacts on the black market, the very contact Rebecca had mentioned in their earlier conversation: Guillermo Rodriguez.

"Rodriguez?" He said, turning another corner. "Yeah, it's Chris Redfield. Listen – I need a favor. Yeah. T-Veronica."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you again to everyone who has commented, favorited, or added this story to their alerts. I've been terrified of my writing for a long time now (love doing it, but obsess over whether or not I'm doing it right) and having you guys leave me such positive feedback has really helped me feel better about what I do. So here's my big shout out to all of you!

And another million, billion thanks to my betas, Yumiko Kaze and Fiannan. They've put up with more than their fair share of my whining and flailing over this story, caught me in goofs and challenged my every decision in the best way possible. This story would not be half as good without their help.

Also, just an FYI – the next three chapters will take a little longer for me to post. I have everything finished but the epilogue at the moment (and I intend on finishing up the epilogue either tonight or tomorrow), but with the game finally out Fiannan and I are both going to be distracted by the shiny for at least a little bit. We shall return, though! I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing for the time being. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote this for fun only.

**Summary: **When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced to do the unthinkable in order to save her.

**Rating/warnings: **T (mostly for swearing). Uh, there were spoilers for the RE5 trailers in here, but as it's been eight months since the game's release that is all probably moot now.

* * *

The pale yellow isolation gown he was forced to wear whenever he wanted to see her rustled faintly as he crossed the room. Chris pulled up a chair and set it down by the bed – his movements as quick, careful, and quiet as he could make them. Jill was sleeping and he didn't want to wake her.

According to Dr. Morales, she was doing much better. Her white counts were up – not by a lot, but considering how low they had been any increase was a damn good thing – she'd been eating more (said she had a craving for lo mein and guacamole), sleeping less (though she was out for the count at the moment), and definitely seemed to be throwing off the infection.

Even so, the oncologist warned them that Jill had a long way to go before she was healthy enough to go home, and he couldn't say how much this might have set her back. She might live another four or five months; or she might go even sooner than that.

"We can guess," Dr. Morales had said when Chris asked, "but that's all it really is: a guess. A lot of it depends on her and how much she wants to live."

_Fight it, Jill. Cancer is not better than you are._

A stray lock of her soft brown hair had fallen across her face while she slept, and Chris reached out with a gloved hand to push it back behind her ear.

The hair came away in his hand.

Chris stared at it, feeling like he'd just taken a powerful punch to the gut. He knew this was coming – they'd stopped the chemotherapy three weeks ago, now, but the damage had been done. And they had no way of knowing how much more she was going to lose.

_All of this_, he thought, dropping the clump of hair to the floor and kicking it under the bed with a footie-covered shoe, _for nothing._ If she hadn't gone on the chemo, she wouldn't have gotten the neutropenia. If she hadn't gotten the neutropenia, she either wouldn't have caught the damn infection or she'd have been able to fight it off. If she hadn't caught the infection, she could be at home with him right now.

Chris gritted his teeth and looked away. His gaze fell on the clear IV tubing that led from her arm to the IV piggyback hanging by the bed, delivering her prescribed mix of fluids, antibiotics for the infection, and white count boosters.

The IV line. If, by some twist of fate, he managed to get a hold of the virus in time, that was how he'd get it into Jill's system. How many times had he watched Camille or Mary or one of the other nurses inject another dose of meds into the line?

Enough that he knew that was the best place to do it.

Her eyebrows twitched and Jill stirred, stretching and opening her eyes. Her gaze darted quickly around the room, taking in her surroundings, and her face lit up when she saw he was sitting there.

"Morning," she said. Her voice was raspy, partly from the infection and partly from disuse. She coughed to clear her throat and asked, "It is still morning, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Chris replied, his voice gentle. "How're you doing?"

"Better. You don't need to ask me that all of the time, you know."

He shook his head. "No can do. Camille told you you'd better get used to it."

Jill snorted softly and shifted, wiggling her way to the edge of the bed. She reached out and touched Chris's arm, tracing her fingers along his forearm to his hand. She tugged his hand free, then intertwined her fingers in his. Her eyes drifted closed again. "I'm glad you're here, Chris."

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. Africa, maybe."

"Africa? What would I be doing there?"

Jill shrugged. Her grip on his hand tightened as she spoke. The change wasn't huge; but he felt it, just like he heard the note of fear in her voice. "The Alliance might send you."

He shifted closer to the bed, and started running his thumb along the back of her hand. "I'm on standby, remember? They won't send me anywhere unless they absolutely have to." He paused, glancing out the door as a nurse walked by. It wasn't Camille, and as she kept on going by the room he turned his gaze back to Jill. "I'm not going to leave you, Jill. Not for anything. We're partners."

"Yeah. Partners."

Chris frowned. This wasn't Jill. "Maybe I should bring in Claire," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "She's been getting on my back about being pessimistic all week."

She smiled faintly. "She should. You're not allowed to be pessimistic."

"Neither are you," he retorted. He was going to say something more, but was interrupted by a knock on the glass. Chris looked up. Rebecca was standing outside.

"Look – there's Rebecca. I'm gonna go say hi. I'll be back, okay?"

Jill nodded. "Okay."

Chris gave her hand one last squeeze before letting it go, then quickly crossed the room and ducked out of the door.

"You didn't have to leave," Rebecca said. "I just wanted to let you know I was here. It's still your shift."

"I know." He tossed the gown, gloves, shoe covers, facemask, and hair net into the biohazardous waste container by the door. Camille and the other nurses had set it up specifically for Chris and the others, since they came and went so often.

"How's she doing?" Rebecca asked.

"Better," Chris said. He stopped suddenly, realizing his phone was ringing. He held up a finger to let Rebecca know he'd finish that thought in about thirty seconds, then reached down and pulled out his phone.

_Does this thing _ever_ stop ringing?_ He wondered, flipping it open. "Redfield."

It was Rodriguez. His voice was curt as he said, "I got it. You still want it?"

Casting a glance at Rebecca, Chris quickly rounded the corner and moved down the hall. Keeping his voice low, he replied, "That didn't take you long."

"I got lucky. Well? You want it or not?"

"Yeah. I still want it." _If nothing else, _he told himself, his thoughts firm,_ you can give it to Rebecca. Unused. It's still a sample, and it's one we don't have. _

"I can't come to you," Rodriguez said, in a tone that said he was not willing to compromise on this point. "You gotta come to me."

"I know."

"How soon?"

Chris looked at his watch, scrunching up his face in thought. Rodriguez liked to camp out in a series of places up and down the Mexican coast. If he left now, there was a good he could get there, pick up the virus, and get back within a day. He could spare a day."I can be down there in about six hours. Probably less."

Six hours from now would put the time around six PM – five in the evening where Rodriguez was.

If Rodriguez picked up on Chris's slight emphasis on the fact that _he_ was coming, and not Colonel Graves, the Marine-cum-B.S.A.A. agent the dealer usually dealt with, he didn't show any signs of it. "That's fine. I'll be at the Luna Bar in Mercado Negro."

"I'll be there." Chris hung up his cell phone, putting it back into his pocket. He turned back down the hall, heading back to Jill's room.

Rebecca was still standing outside, watching her through the glass.

"Hey," he said to her, lightly touching her shoulder to get her attention. "I've got to go. Stay with Jill for me, okay?"

"What?" Rebecca turned away from the glass. "Where are you going? It's still your – "

Chris shook his head. Rebecca – least of all, Rebecca – did not need to know where he was going. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise."

"But…wait! Chris! It's still your shift! Where are…What am I supposed to tell Jill?"

"Just tell her I'll be back!" He called over his shoulder as he rounded the corner and jogged for the elevator.

_Jill, _he thought as he hastily dialed up the airport so he could try and book a flight out to Cancún within the next two hours, _I will be back. I just have to try this one thing, okay?_ He hoped to God that she understood that he'd be back. He wasn't going to abandon her – not now, not ever.

Even if it _seemed_ like he was.

* * *

The Mercado Negro – literally, the Black Market, a name that Chris couldn't help but laugh at – was a small, backwater town on the Yucatán Peninsula, located some two hundred miles out of the nearest major city and sixty miles from the nearest paved road. It was framed on three sides by creeping tropical jungle while the fourth side was farmland irrigated by a nearby river.

Though it looked like an idyllic little rural village, it was not a welcoming place. Buyers eyed him nervously as he walked by while the merchants glared at him from behind their stalls. More than half of the men he saw – buyers and merchants alike – were armed. Chris saw quite a few with assault rifles slung over their backs, and several more with smaller automatics and some semi-automatics.

_Maybe I should have brought _my_ gun,_ he thought, suddenly feeling very naked without it. _Never know when I'm going to need it, anymore. _

He hadn't brought it with him because it would have taken too long to check it when he was rushing just to make the flight, and he didn't want to use his status with the Alliance to take it on board with him. Chris looked around again, feeling at least a dozen eyes on him.

The hand came out of nowhere, clapping him hard on his sweat-drenched back. A rough voice said in his ear, "This way, Agent Redfield."

Chris turned, and a man he assumed was Rodriguez flashed him a grin. "You're making people nervous," Rodriguez explained, motioning for Chris to follow him to the open-air bar – the Luna Bar, actually – on the corner. "And these guys…well, they're trigger happy on the best of days."

"And on the worst?" Chris asked as he followed Rodriguez's lead to small, round, wooden table next to a leafy potted plant.

"You don't want to know. Here. Take a seat." Rodriguez dropped into one of the chairs around the table, reaching for his glass as he did. "Make yourself at home. Get you a drink?"

"No, thanks," Chris said, settling into the surprisingly comfortable wicker chair across from the dealer. "I've been told not to drink the water down here."

"The liquor's still good."

Chris shook his head. He'd already had a hard enough time getting out to this place, between the long drive and the dirt road and the fact that he'd been forced to ditch his car a good five miles out of town. He didn't see the point in making it even harder to get back out again.

"Suit yourself." Rodriguez raised the glass that he'd left sitting on the table and took a drink, giving Chris a few seconds to look him over properly.

They'd never met before this point, though they had talked. Colonel Rainier Graves – a Marine who occasionally moonlighted for the B.S.A.A. – was one of the few men in the Alliance who had ever seen Rodriguez in person.

Now, Chris could see that Rodriguezwas broad and sturdily built, with powerful shoulders and arms. He was clean-shaven, and though his dark hair was on the longer side it was obviously taken care of. A pair of sunglasses rested on the top of his head. Really, he didn't look that much different than some of the other guys around here.

Except, unlike everyone else, he was wearing long sleeves.

_How the hell can he wear long sleeves in _this_? _Chris wondered. It was easily over ninety degrees, even in the shade. He was covered in sweat, and with the jungle's natural humidity keeping that sweat from doing its job, it felt even hotter.

"How did you know who I was?" Chris asked suddenly. "We've never met."

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow and retorted, "How did _you_ know who I was? We've never met." He shrugged. "You stand out. Besides, I do my research."

He finished his drink, clapped the glass and some money down on the table, and waved at the bartender before motioning for Chris to follow him out of the bar.

The crowds did not thin out any as they made their way down the busy streets. Rodriguez dodged and wove easily through the throng, though it really wasn't necessary – the villagers all moved out of his way as he walked by.

Too bad they didn't do the same for Chris.

"They _really_ don't like me, do they?" he commented dryly when one of the men on the street – buyer or seller, he couldn't tell – glanced off his shoulder and then made a show of pulling his gun out of his belt.

"You're an American," Rodriguez replied. "Nobody likes the Americans any more."

Chris frowned. The B.S.A.A.'s dossier labeled Rodriguez as American born, though, admittedly, they didn't have much on him past that. The Alliance had only started looking at him a couple of years ago, after the ATF sent them one of their own files. They knew Rodriguez as Hernando Garcia, and under that alias he mostly bought and sold weapons for the Colombian drug cartels. But as the ATF continued to track that alias they'd found he had a half dozen more names and seemed to be developing a stockpile of the T-virus.

At first, the B.S.A.A. only wanted to keep an eye on him. If he became a threat, they could neutralize him. That had been the plan, anyway. To this day, Chris wasn't sure what tipped Rodriguez off. But somehow, about a year and a half ago now, he'd figured out that he was being followed. Turned out that he also had friends in the Marines, and he used them to get into contact with the Alliance.

Though he was tempted, Chris chose not to ask about the dealer's heritage. He was here for his virus, and nothing more. _You can worry about him later._

Rodriguez led him to a low slung, concrete building at the far end of the village. It was much closer to the jungle than the other buildings and nearly hidden by the vines already – a few more months, and it was quite possible the brush would eat the building whole. Chris waited, keeping an eye on the village they hadn't quite left behind, as Rodriguez unlocked the door and let them inside.

"Keep an eye out," Rodriguez said as he crossed the room.

"For what?" As Chris looked on, Rodriguez eased a heavy mahogany coffee table from the rug in the small living room.

"I don't think anyone followed us back, but you never know." He jerked his head towards the window. "There's a gun in that planter if you need it. Should still work fine. I just cleaned it yesterday."

"Where are you going?"

"What, you think I keep the T-virus just lying around? That shit's volatile." Rodriguez carefully rolled up part of the rug, revealing a trapdoor in the floor.

"That seems like a pretty obvious place to look for a hiding spot."

"They can find it, sure. But they can't get into it." Rodriguez climbed to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back a few seconds later with a black messenger bag, which he set on the coffee table he'd moved. He pulled out a dark laptop and set it on the table next to the bag, then a cable he ran from the laptop to a port in the floor. "No one's coming, right?"

Chris turned back to the window. "No."

This part of the village was practically empty, and the few people he could see walking by were heading towards the market, not away from it.

"Good." Rodriguez had apparently left the computer on while it was in the bag, because he didn't seem to have to wait for it to boot up. Instead he hastily typed something on the keyboard, and Chris heard the trapdoor unlock with a clunk.

"That is…actually kinda cool."

"You do enough dirty work for people and they're okay with doing some dirty work for you," Rodriguez said, striding back to the door and lifting it open. "This whole get up – the basement, the door, the tripwires and flash boxes I've got wired up on the roof – was part of my payment for a run a couple years back." He smiled darkly as he started down the ladder.

_Tripwires on the roof?_ Chris thought, casting a glance towards the ceiling. He'd never heard of that one before. _Never tried that one. Doesn't seem like a bad idea._

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing at his watch before turning his attention out the window again. It was almost six, now, and the hot tropical sun was starting to sink below the trees. Though he'd managed to get out to this place on time, it was going to take him a little longer than he had planned to get back to D.C., as the next flight to Dulles didn't leave until early the following morning.

Chris drew a hand down his sweat-covered face. He'd leave here, drive back to the airport, spend the night there, then fly home with the virus as soon as he could. Barring any delays with the plane, he figured he could get back to Jill before noon, virus in hand.

The realization that he was actually here, retrieving a sample of the T-Veronica virus, hit him right about then. It wasn't just a chance any more, or some loose semblance of a plan – he was going to have the virus in his possession. He was going to have the means of keeping her alive with him.

"This," Rodriguez said, climbing back up the ladder and sealing the floor back up again, "was not easy for me to get a hold of." He set a tiny vial down on the table by his laptop. Chris caught a glimpse of a black streak on his arm, just peeking out from underneath one of his sleeves, as he pulled his hand away. "Cost me quite a bit."

The vial was half filled with a dark, thin liquid. It sloshed against the vial's glass walls as it tried to settle, leaving a faintly blue-purple stain behind wherever it touched. Chris did not reach for it, though. Not yet. He said, "You'll be reimbursed." _Even if I have to do it myself._

"That's not what I meant." Rodriguez looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "Someone else was trying to buy it, same as I was."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"Any ideas?"

Rodriguez shook his head. "I've run into competition before. Terrorist cells in Afghanistan want this shit to use on their enemies. Political radicals in South Africa would love to turn their opponents into zombies – keeps 'em from running in the elections. Extremists from all around the world can't wait to try it out. Hell, I once heard of a guy wanting to buy a sample to use on his _wife_ – but those guys? They don't have the money I do. This guy, whoever he was? He had more cash to blow on this little vial than I've ever seen in my life. It's hard to say no to that much money."

"So how did you get a hold of this thing, then?"

"Shot a man in Reno," Rodriguez said with a grin. "I called in an old favor. The guys out here; they aren't as bad as everyone thinks." He paused. "Not all of them, anyway."

Chris reached out and lightly touched the little vial, then wrapped his hand around it. The glass was cool to the touch, at least compared to the sweltering heat of this place. "It _is_ T-Veronica."

"Yes. That's what you wanted, that's what I got."

Chris looked at glass vial once more. He'd held samples like this one before. Eight years since the incident at Rockfort. Eight years since he had first found out that Wesker survived the Spencer Mansion. Eight years since his sister had held Steve as he died. Eight years, and here he was, holding a sample of that virus in his hand.

_It's gonna save Jill,_ he reminded himself. _You need it to save her._

"You all right there, Redfield?"

Chris started. "What? Yeah, sorry."

"Doesn't look like much, does it? I've eaten food that looked more dangerous than that."

"Can't judge it by how it looks," Chris replied. "Just what it can do."

"I know. Personal experience." Rodriguez drummed his hands lightly on the table before saying, "Come on. I'll take you back to your car. Can't imagine you want to walk back there in the dark."

* * *

Even at seven in the morning, the Cancún airport bustled and nearly throbbed with the sounds of couples and families arriving for and departing from their tropical vacations. Throughout the terminal Chris could hear mothers shouting for their children, the roaring hiss of massive coffee makers and milk steamers, and the painful scraping sounds of security gates as they were raised.

_And here I thought tourism was always one of the first markets to suffer in a recession,_ Chris thought, downing the last of his coffee in a single gulp. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed, and heavily shadowed from his night spent sprawled across the curved plastic chairs in the terminal. He had napped but never really slept, and the virus had never once left his side. Hell, he hadn't even taken his hand off the damn thing – if something were to happen to him, the cops dispatched to deal with his body would literally have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands.

His plane would be boarding soon, at least. The flight back would only take about four hours, giving him – hopefully – enough time to grab a quick shower and something to eat at his apartment before he got his ass back to the hospital.

The hospital.

Chris winced. Ideally, this trip would have been over and done with almost five hours ago, and he'd be back at the hospital by now. Actually, in an ideal world he wouldn't have had to fly out here and pick up the virus at all – Rodriguez would have come to him with it. Then he could have simply ducked out of the hospital for two, maybe three hours, not twelve.

Three hours was a lot easier to lie about, after all. He could probably bullshit his way through a three-hour disappearance without much difficulty, but this?

This wasn't going to be easy.

Chris rubbed at a sore muscle in the back of his neck. _Barry and Claire are going to kill me for this. And Rebecca will probably help._

_Doesn't matter. I got what I came for._

He looked down at the small, steel case Rodriguez had given him to carry the T-Veronica sample in, but didn't open it. He just let it sit on his lap as he ran his fingers over the dimpled silver sides.

_You won't have to die now, Jill. I can save you._

_I will save you._

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the long delay, everyone. Life decided it wanted to rear its ugly head for a little while for me, Yumi, and Fiannan. Unfortunately, things have not yet cooled down on Fiannan's end, so this chapter is currently unbeta'd. I wanted to wait, but I figured I can always edit it later. So as soon as I get the beta'd version back I'll update this chapter, but until then you guys get this.

And after this, there's only one chapter left! We're really close to the end, everyone!

Also - I want to thank everyone again for all of your lovely reviews. One of these days I'll get back in the habit of replying to them, but for now I want you all to know that I love each and every review so much, even if I don't reply to them. Your ideas and encouragement and kind words all make my day, seriously.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing for the time being. I seek no monetary gain from this. I wrote this for fun only.

**Summary: **When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced to do the unthinkable in order to save her.

**Rating/warnings: **T (mostly for swearing). Also: we don't always get the happy endings that we want.

* * *

**Estimated Life Expectancy**

**Chapter 5**

_Everything is going to be okay_, Chris told himself as he drove down the busy D.C. streets. He had the virus. It was in his hands. He could save Jill. He _would_ save Jill. And everything was going to be okay.

He glanced over as the evening rush-hour traffic came to a near-standstill down Pennsylvania Avenue. The virus, still in its little, dimpled silver case, rode on the seat beside him. He narrowed his eyes at it and frowned, thinking.

For all the weeks Chris had spent obsessing over this idea, that getting a hold of T-Veronica and then using it on Jill could save her, he hadn't ever come up with an actual plan. Ideas, sure. But no actual plan.

_So…come up with one,_ he thought, turning from the roundabout on Pennsylvania Avenue onto 23rd. He wasn't a doctor or a nurse, so he couldn't just saunter into her room and inject the virus into her IV line as if it were antibiotics.

Even if injecting it would let it work faster.

He could lace her food with it, though. That might take longer, and possibly a higher dose to be on the safe side, but it should work. After all, the only means of transfer T-Virus seemed _incapable_ of was airborne. At least, in eight years they'd never encountered an airborne strain.

Still…he'd prefer to inject it.

_Then do that_, he told himself as he turned into the hospital's parking lot and dropped his Jeep off in his usual spot, _and put it in her food as a last resort._

_Just make sure no one else is around when you do it._

He slid from the driver's seat, almost forgetting – yet again – to grab his phone. He hadn't looked at it since he'd gotten back from Cancún earlier that afternoon, and almost didn't want to check and see how many messages and missed calls he had. They wouldn't do him any good now, anyway.

The isolation floor was quieter than usual, Chris realized as he stepped off the elevator. Tyler, the leukemia patient who'd been in for a bone marrow transplant, had gone home sometime the week before – taking with him his brother, Zack (the other mother hen) and his family, leaving just two other patients on the isolation floor besides Jill. And Jill was – hopefully – going to get out of this place soon. If she kept improving, at least.

God, he hoped she kept improving.

He rounded the corner to Jill's hall. Rebecca and Barry were standing there in the hall – closer to this end than Jill's room at the other. Chris stopped, frowning, and they both turned to look at him.

Then Barry snarled, "There you are! Where the _hell_ have you been, Chris?" He came down the hall, his hands clenching into fists.

Chris tensed, ready to dodge if Barry took a swing at him – it _really_ looked like he might – and glanced at Rebecca. Had she guessed where he had gone, and told Barry?But Rebecca's eyes were on Barry and she seemed just as surprised at his outburst as Chris was.

To be honest, Chris had come back fully expecting everyone to be pissed off at him. He had left town without really telling anyone and it had taken him several hours longer than he had originally thought it would to get back. He deserved whatever he got; but he hadn't expected Barry to be _this_ mad. Strong, stable Barry Burton did not get this mad about anything. Unless…

_Did something happen? Something else?_ As if they needed more bad news. Chris started down the hall, asking, "Is Jill okay?"

"No," Barry snapped in reply, stepping in front of him and blocking the way. He clearly wasn't finished yet. "Jill is _not_ okay. She's _sick_, Chris. She's _dying_. You know she doesn't have much – "

"Barry!" Rebecca said, her voice sharp. Her gaze darted from him to Chris and back again. "That's enough."

Chris watched his old friend deflate with a pang of guilt. He hadn't wanted to leave – he _had_ to. He had to get the virus and Rodriguez wouldn't come to him. So he had to go. He didn't regret it, but that didn't mean he couldn't feel guilty about it.

_But what happened? _he thought. What happened to Jill while he was gone? Chris started to demand an answer, but Barry cut him off again.

"I called you," he said, his voice flat, "probably a dozen times. Claire probably called you even more than that. Whatever you were doing, I hope it was important enough that you couldn't take thirty seconds to answer your goddamned phone." Shaking his head, he shoved past Chris and started down the hall, his footfalls echoing loudly in the empty space.

Rebecca started after him, calling, "Where are you going?"

"It's all right, Rebecca." Barry waved dismissively over his shoulder, but did not turn around or even stop. "I'm gonna go find Claire. Let her know her lunk-head of a brother isstill alive."

Chris winced as he and Rebecca watched Barry disappear around the corner. Chris's hand dropped to the deep pocket on the thigh of his pants – where he'd put the steel container for safekeeping. He expected her to turn on him next and either ask him where he'd gone or guess he'd gone after a sample of the virus. It hadn't been that long since they'd discussed it, after all – just three weeks – and she had overheard at least part of his call with Rodriguez.

"Rebecca," he began after a few minutes, hoping to break the silence.

"Don't," she warned, her voice unsteady. A few seconds later, she turned and glared at him. "I'm not happy with you, Chris. What you did…Running out on Jill like that…" Her face fell. "I just don't think we should be fighting right now."

"Be angry with me all you want," he replied, his voice harsher than he meant it to be. "I don't care. _What happened_?"

"Jill's gone septic."

Chris's gut twisted violently. "No," he said, but his voice had gone and no words came out.

In the first few weeks after Jill had been diagnosed, Chris had spent hours finding out everything he could about her cancer and its treatment. Neutropenia, infection, and sepsis were all things that cropped up on the List of Stuff that Could Go Wrong. They'd dealt with neutropenia and infection already, and sepsis, if he remembered it right, was the full-body inflammatory response to infection; to microbes in the blood or some medical shit like that.

Either way, it was not good. Not good at all.

"When…?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"It probably started before you left yesterday, but we didn't know 'til after you were gone. Her blood pressure and her temperature both dropped and she started having trouble breathing, so they put her on a breathing mask." Rebecca ran a hand through her hair. "Go and see her, Chris. I'm…gonna go get a drink." She lurched away from him, and walked away down the hall, leaving Chris standing there by himself.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought, staring after her back, wishing there was a way to get them to understand without wasting the time it would take to explain. _But I did what I had to do._ _I have to save her._ He tapped his hand against the case in his pocket, then wheeled and jogged down the hall.

Jill shifted as he entered, her eyes flashing weakly in recognition when she saw him. An even weaker smile flashed across her face, but he barely saw it because of the breathing mask she was wearing.

"Hey," he said softly, grabbing the same stool he always did. As he sat down he went on, "Rebecca says you aren't feeling so good."

She snorted softly, closing her eyes. "I'm dying, Chris." Her voice was raspy and distorted by the mask. "Didn't think that was supposed to feel good."

"Don't say that."

"It's true." She reached for his hand. Her fingers were cold. Chris took her other hand in his as well, covering them up to warm them.

"You're gonna get better," he told her. "You will."

"Cancer…" she murmured, turning her head on the pillow and meeting his eyes. "Who saw this coming, huh?"

Chris's chest tightened. "Don't joke," he begged her. "Don't joke about this."

They fell silent for a few minutes, and Jill turned her gaze to the window.

Chris shifted and felt the steel case fall against his leg. How would it go, he wondered. His ears suddenly tuned in on the slow, steady beeping of her cardiac monitor. Would she die and then come back, or would she just start to get better?

One thing for sure, he couldn't do it without asking her first. He loved her. He trusted her – and she trusted him. And he knew her. They knew each other so well they didn't even need to talk sometimes. But this…this was nothing like their other plans or, hell, even remotely like anything they'd ever done. This wasn't something they could discuss in hand signals and looks shared across a room. This wasn't something he could explain to her without words. Where would he even start?

Even using words, where would he start?

"Jill," he said, staring hard at window, "if I knew about something that might make you completely better, but it…" He trailed off, looking for a way to phrase it. "…But it would change _everything_, would you want me to do it?"

"Nnn…" she began, and he felt her hands tense in his. Chris looked down as Jill's eyes fluttered closed.

"Jill?"

And then the machines around her head began to scream.

Chris jerked back, his eyes darting from one machine to the next. "Jill? Jill!" Her hand had gone limp in his – limp and cold.

_Oh, no. No, no, no. _"Jill!"

The door opened and he whipped around, yelling, "Do something!"

Summoned by the sounds of the alarms, four nurses rushed into the room. They pushed him out of the way, forcing him to let go of Jill's hand. Chris stepped back, his heart racing and his gut twisting.

The nurses quickly set to work, poking at Jill, prodding at her, checking the IV lines of saline and antibiotics leading to her arm and the monitors that just kept on screaming. They shouted at each other – words Chris heard but didn't know, medical jargon he could never, ever hope to keep up with at this point.

_No, no, no, _he thought_. No, oh please, no_. Finding his voice again, he shouted,"What's going on? Someone tell me what's going on!"

One of the nurses pushed in front of him, forcing him to the back of the small isolation room with a glare. Two more wheeled in a cart with about half a dozen little red drawers on the front and an IV pole on the side and a machine with…

_Oh God. _It was a crash cart. The damn thing looked just like the ones he'd seen on TV. Chris looked on in horror as Dr. Morales sprinted through the door, calling for them to charge the paddles.

"What are you doing? What's happening to her?" He was fully aware that he sounded like a scared child. He didn't care.

Dr. Morales finally looked up. "Chris, you really shouldn't be in here." He jerked his head towards the door. "Out, please."

Chris dug in his heels. No way they were kicking him out before he knew what was going on with Jill. "Not until someone tells me what the fuck is going on!"

In a sharp, authoritative tone, Dr. Morales barked, "Chris! Out! I'll send someone to talk to you _after_ we finish saving her life!"

He felt hands take his arm, and another pair against his back, but he neither saw nor cared who they belonged to. His eyes were on Jill, on her pale skin and dark hair, on the tubes and wires leading to and from her body, on the way her back arched under the shock from the defibrillator.

Chris let the nurses herd him out the door, though he threw himself at the glass as soon as they'd closed the door on him. He flexed his fingers against the glass, barely aware and hardly caring about the greasy streaks he'd leave be leaving behind.

God, if this were something happening in the mansion or on a mission or something else, _anything_ else he'd be fine. He'd be just fucking fine. But this? He had seen a lot of terrible things in his life. He had seen things no one else should ever have to. But so far, neither zombies nor tyrants nor giant spiders nor mutated plants nor the monster that was the T-A.L.O.S. could have prepared him for this. Compared to this, those things were _cake_.

He reached for his phone, planning to call Barry and Claire and Rebecca and tell them to get up here, _now_, but his hands were shaking so much he could barely hold onto it, much less dial any of the numbers.

"Chris!" He looked up, and there was Rebecca. "What's going on?"

"I don't know! We were talking and then these alarms started going off!" He pushed a hand through his hair, stalking back and forth in the hall – first in front of the glass, then between it and the bench across the hall. His heart was slamming in his chest and though he _felt_ like he'd just jumped in an icy lake in the middle of winter, he was sweating.

Rebecca took one glance inside the room and turned. "I'm gonna go get Barry," she called, taking off down the hall. "I'll be right back!"

Chris continued to pace, pressing the palms of his hands against the sides of his head. He glanced inside the isolation room every now and again, but each time he did he felt his heart jump again. _No, no, no. Oh, God, don't go, Jill, don't go, I don't want you to go yet! I haven't even had the chance to save you! _

_Jill!_

It was only when a couple of the nurses in her room looked up that he realized he had called her name out loud.

At a word, it seemed, from Dr. Morales – Chris couldn't hear a damn thing over the sounds of the alarms – Camille stepped away from Jill and over to the glass. Chris moved to the door, expecting her to come out and tell him something, _anything_ about what was going on.

But she didn't. Instead, shooting him a pain-filled look, she hit a button on the wall by the door. The blinds slid closed, completely hiding what was going on inside from Chris's view.

"No!" Chris slammed his palms against the door. "Jill!"

"Chris!"

Chris turned. Barry and Claire were sprinting towards him, Rebecca trailing a little further behind. She had her cell phone pressed to her ear, though Chris had no clue who she might be talking to.

"What's going on?" Barry asked, skidding to a halt outside the door.

"I don't know!" Chris pressed the heels of his palms against his temples and stared hard at the tile floor. The alarms were still screaming, echoing loud and shrill inside his skull. "She just went limp and then the alarms started to go off and then they closed the blinds!"

Someone grabbed his arm, and Chris lifted his head to look. Claire was at his side, her arms wrapped around his, her cheek pressed hard against her shoulder. He reached out with his free hand and took one of hers, plucking it off of his bicep, then motioned for Rebecca and Barry to come and join them. The other survivors did just that; Rebecca falling in on Chris's free side while Barry took a position by her flank.

Forcing his voice to be as steady as possible, Chris said, "We'll get through this. We'll get through this."

And then, at once, the alarms stopped.

Chris looked up, then quickly glanced at the others. They were all staring at the blinds, and he got the feeling they were all holding their breath as they waited.

The sounds were still ringing in his ears when the door finally opened and Camille stepped out into the hall.

Rebecca was the first to move, breaking away from the rest and asking, "Is she okay? Camille, is Jill okay?"

Camille's voice was flat as she said, "We've gotten her stabilized, yes."

"What happened?"

"She's gone into what we call septic shock." She looked at each of them in turn as she spoke.

"Septic shock," Chris repeated numbly, taking a small step back. He looked towards Jill's room, but with the blinds still drawn he couldn't see anything. He could only picture her lying there and getting weaker and weaker and weaker…

"What is septic shock, exactly?" Barry asked. "Is it some sort of second stage to the sepsis?"

Camille nodded.

"How does that happen? I thought you were treating the sepsis."

"We still are." Camille pushed a loose strand of sweat-drenched hair off her face. She explained, "Sepsis releases a large amount of toxins into the blood. In Jill's case, those toxins were staphylococcus bacteria. Her body reacted to fight them off, but in doing so prevented her muscles and organs from getting all the food and oxygen they need to survive, sending her into shock. We're doing everything we can for her now, but…" Camille glanced inside the room, then said, "You guys need to be aware that there's a very good chance she won't last much longer."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Might be tomorrow. Might be the day after. Might even be sometime today."

* * *

Over the next few hours, other people began to stop by to visit. Apparently, Rebecca had been under strict orders to call the B.S.A.A. main office whenever something changed. His team came – Brooks and Lancer first, then Eppley and Gomez and Griff. Morgan, Bell, Baker, and Gray – Jill's team – dropped by later that afternoon. So did Barnes and Ross and Coleman and Colonel Graves – some of the higher-ups at the B.S.A.A. _Leon_ even dropped by – Chris saw him in the lounge talking to Claire once while he was on his way to the bathroom.

Chris hadn't seen some of these guys in quite some time – Graves and Leon, for instance, because the former had been on a tour of duty in Qatar and the latter spent more time with the President's family than he did anywhere else. But they were here, now, trickling in one by one.

Some reunion it was, though. All of them were here to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, they were interfering with his plan. He had figured it would be hard enough with Barry and Rebecca and Claire and the doctors and nurses ducking in and out – sometimes without warning – but he couldn't dodge all of them _plus_ more than a dozen others.

Finally – _finally!_ – he got his chance. All of the others had finally gone home, leaving Chris alone in the hospital with her.

_Do it!_ He screamed at himself, looking at the IV line dripping morphine into her veins. _Goddammit, if you were ever going to do it now would be the time!_ He raised a hand towards the IV piggyback, shifting his grip on the virus.

_What if someone comes?_ He thought. Then, _No one is coming. They're all gone._

_You shouldn't be doing this._God, that voice! That stupid little voice that had tap-danced around his skull every time he thought of using T, nagging him, reminding him how stupid and dangerous this whole plan was.

He hated that voice. It got in his way.

_I have to do it,_ he told himself, i_f I want Jill to live. _

With his left hand, his _free_ hand, Chris reached out towards the IV bag. He'd grab it and fill the syringe and stick the needle right in the drip, in the same part of the line he'd seen Camille and Mary and Dr. Morales inject her meds into. He'd inject the virus right into her veins and wait.

But his hand fell short.

Chris held it suspended, halfway between his body and the IV, for a few beats longer before dropping it heavily back to his side. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it, and it wasn't a matter of timing, or the risk anyone would come in and see, or because he didn't desperately want Jill to live, or any of those things. This was Jill. Jill-fucking-Valentine. _His_ Jill. And she wouldn't have wanted him to cross that line.

Chris clenched his hand into a fist, holding it stiffly down by the seat of the stool while he stared at the syringe in his other hand. He hated himself right then, for even _once_ considering using the T-virus on her. It was such a stupid idea. He'd known it all along, even if he'd managed to convince himself that he had to at least _try._

And who could blame him? This was Jill Valentine. Member of the S.T.A.R.S., survivor of Rwanda, honorary part of the Delta force. She'd faced down armies of zombies, surviving where some of her teammates fell. She'd helped bring down Umbrella. She was strong, she was beautiful, she was amazing…

And she could blame him. She probably wouldn't, but she could. And he'd want her to, actually, because it would mean that someone on this God-forsaken earth still gave a damn about morals and rights and ethics.

Chris roughly put the syringe back in the case, and then stuffed the case back in his pocket. He looked at Jill again, studying her face – the way the dying sunlight curved over her cheekbones and caught in her still-thinning hair, sending tiny sparks of copper and bronze and gold up and down the strands. He thought of her eyes, hidden underneath her deeply shadowed, bruised-looking eyes, and how full of life they always were.

He would have gone to the ends of the earth to save her, if that's what it took, and he'd have done it without a second thought or a single question. Hell, if Wesker had stopped by the hospital that morning and offered her a cure in exchange for his life, he'd have accepted every last one of that bastard's terms and conditions in a heartbeat.

Because that was how much he loved her.

"I love you, Jill," he said, his voice breaking. He folded his arms on her bed and rested his head on them. The top of his head lightly grazed her side and he tightly closed his eyes, whispering, "I love you."

Some time later, the door opened, and he jerked awake as Rebecca came in.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to wake you. How is she?"

Chris shook his head. He ran a hand down his face, then rubbed at the back of his neck. He was stiff and sore and dead tired and he was sure he looked like hell. "What time is it?"

"Nearly one," she replied, then added, "In the afternoon."

"Really?" God, he'd slept a while.

"You should go get something to eat," she said. "If nothing else. I'll stay here."

Chris nodded, but didn't move. He wasn't hungry, though he couldn't remember what he had to eat last, or even when.

He inhaled deeply, shifting his position on the stool. The virus case glanced against his thigh.

If he wasn't going to use it, there was no point in keeping it. Chris reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the sample, looking at it once more before closing it up in his fist.

"Here," he said, holding it out.

"What is it?"

"Just take it, Rebecca."

He felt her fingers graze his as she held out her hand, and he pressed the vial into her palm.

"T-Veronica," he said, without meeting her eyes. "Probably the only sample Rodriguez will ever be able to get for us."

"Chris, you – "

"I didn't use it. It's all still there." He dropped his head, staring hard at a worn spot on the knee of his jeans. The fabric grew blurry and began to swim. "You can take it to the labs and do…whatever it is you'd do with it."

For several long minutes Rebecca neither moved nor said anything, and Chris never once stopped looking at that blurry, worn spot on his knee. Then, breaking the heavy silence, he heard the swift tapping of her shoes on the tile as she walked around the bed. Before he could even so much as look up she had thrown her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder. Her frame, still as tiny as it had been when they'd met on the S.T.A.R.S., shook with soundless sobs.

"Hey, now," Chris said, reaching up and patting her shoulder. "Don't cry. It'll be okay."

He had meant to comfort her with that, but seemed to make things worse instead. Rebecca sniffled, the trembling growing more pronounced, and choked out, "She's really going to die. I'm glad you didn't use it, but…now Jill is really going to die."

Chris felt his throat and chest both tighten, and suddenly it was hard for him to breathe. He tilted his head back so he was staring up at the tiled ceiling.

"Yeah," he managed, but that was all.

Jill Valentine was going to die. She was going to die of fucking cancer, and there was nothing more he could do.

* * *

Jill continued to get progressively worse over the next couple of hours. She barely moved and hardly even seemed aware of what was going on. She would flinch sometimes in pain, or squeeze his hand when he held hers, but that was really it.

The others came and went, but Chris refused to leave at all. Fortunately, it seemed that the hospital staff had given up trying to make him leave.

He was coming back from a very short trip to the bathroom when he nearly ran into Camille. The nurses had all been coming periodically to check Jill's vitals and meds – the IV lines that dripped nothing but painkillers into her veins now.

"How is she doing?" He asked, more out of reflex than anything. He could see for himself that she was only getting worse.

What he really meant, but couldn't ask, was this: how long did she still have?

"She's sleeping," Camille said, squeezing his arm to draw his attention back to her. Chris turned from the glass reluctantly, but when he did she went on, "Don't force her to stay awake. But talk to her. She can still hear you. If she does wake up and says she's thirsty, we've got ice chips. Just hit the call button and we'll bring them."

Chris nodded, but he barely heard anything she was saying. He just wanted to get inside.

"She's probably going to be disoriented and restless, but don't force her to stay put. Try and talk her into it. If she won't listen, let us know."

"Call button," Chris said faintly.

"That's right." Giving his arm another squeeze – this time a gentle, supportive one – Camille released his arm. "Go."

Swallowing thickly, Chris slid open the door and slipped inside.

There was a faint smell in the room – one he knew all too well. The Spencer Mansion had been saturated with it, a smell not unlike raw hamburger that had been left in the sun to thaw for a little too long.

It was the smell of death.

Chris pushed the smell aside out of habit as he slipped onto the chair beside her bed. Someone had taken away the stool at some point, but he couldn't remember quite when. He reached out and took her hand. Her skin was mottled and discolored, and her hand was cold, almost icy to the touch.

"Jill," he said softly, giving her hand a little squeeze, "It…It's Chris. I'm here, okay? I'm here. And I promise I'm not going to leave you again, okay? I promise, I won't ever leave you again." He turned to look at her face – that beautiful, warm, familiar face. In the intermittent silence between the beeps of her cardiac monitor, he could hear her gurgling faintly; yet another a sign that her body couldn't take care of itself any more.

He went on, "I'm sorry I left before. I had to do something. It was stupid, but I had to…I had to _try_, Jill. I didn't want to lose you. I _still_ don't want to lose you. But…I couldn't do what I had planned. I just couldn't do it. You'd have hated me forever." He ran his thumb over her fingers, back and forth, wanting her to wake up and smile at him and laugh at how much of a wreck he was.

But she didn't. Jill didn't move at all.

So Chris kept talking.

"You know," he said, surprised to find his voice thick and the words hard to come by, "I had always wanted us to…to get married." He forced a laugh, hoping it would either clear his throat or drive away the hot tears burning his eyes. "I kinda had it all planned out. Not the wedding – that was supposed to be your thing – but where we'd live, how many kids we'd have…"

He had to stop again. Chris took a deep, steadying breath. Closing his eyes tight, he rested his forehead against her cold fingers.

"I wanted at least two," he went on. "A boy and a girl. And a dog. And a house in the suburbs. No white picket fence, though. We'd have six-foot cedar, like I always had growing up, and there'd be a big tree out back so I could build a tree house for the kids. And we'd have a big patio with one of those fire pits, so we could all make s'mores in the summer."

Chris looked at Jill again. She was barely breathing, her chest rising and falling only shallowly. It looked like she wasn't breathing at all.

He looked away, swallowing thickly and gritting his teeth. He hated himself for having waited so long to say these things to her. He hated that he had had to wait till the last possible minute to tell her everything that he had thought about her for the past eight years.

And he hated that there was nothing more he could do but sit there and wait for her to die.

The minutes ticked by, marked by the twitching second hand on the clock in the hall. Chris watched it, counting off the beeps of the cardiac monitor as he stared hard at the clock. The beeping filled his ears with its incessant sound; the rhythmic beeping that let him know that, beyond all appearances, Jill was still alive.

Something changed in the rhythm. Chris snapped his head over to look at her. He listened, jaw clenched so tight he wouldn't have been surprised if it broke under the pressure.

The beeping started to slow.

_No. No, no, no, no. Not yet, please, God, not yet._ He pressed his free hand over his eyes. The other was still holding on to one of hers. _Not yet, please, I'm not ready to live without her. I can't live without her. I need her, oh, God, I need her, please…_

The beep became a whine, loud and grating in his ears and not the sound it should be making. Chris tightened his grip on her cold, cold, icy cold fingers.

Chris heard someone come in, but he didn't look to see who it was. The whine stopped with the click of a flipped switch, and a startlingly deep silence fell on the room. Chris tightened his grip on Jill's hand, but otherwise didn't move.

He heard the nurse leave, and he pulled his hand off of his eyes.

Jill was lying still on the bed. The monitors all around her head were off now, for the first time in a month, their dark screens distorting and throwing back her and Chris's reflections.

Chris's throat and chest both tightened. His eyes burned, his vision swimming. He tried looking away, but that didn't help, and all he saw was a blurry figure standing outside. He couldn't tell who it was, and frankly he didn't care.

He leaned forward, resting his head against Jill's stomach.

And Chris Redfield cried.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, guys, this is the end. Like the last chapter, this one is currently unbeta'd, so if you happen to notice any glaring errors please point them out to me. I would love you all forever and ever if you did.

I hope you have enjoyed reading this, as I truly enjoyed writing it and sharing it (even if it broke my heart to do so). A great big thank you to every one of you for reading/reviewing/faving/taking the time to even glance my story over, as well. You have effectively made my day a million times over, and I can never, ever thank all of you enough.

A few things before I leave off for a while: I neglected to mention at the end of the last chapter that Rodriguez is NOT an original character. He is a canon character -- though not one from the Outbreak series (as I am unfamiliar with that canon). He is, in fact, a character we have not seen in the series in quite some time, and the name thing is a coincidence (I picked 'Rodriguez' because it is a common Spanish last name and I needed something common). My beta, Fiannan, guessed who he was and it would make my day if you guys got it, too, because it was part of the fun I had writing that scene.

I feel I should also mention that this might not necessarily be the end of this story. I had originally planned an epilogue that would segue into the events of Resident Evil 5, but after playing the game I decided my original idea didn't quite work the way I wanted it to. This was okay, I just scrapped the epilogue and went with the original five chapters instead; the five chapters I have now finished uploading here. And while I am quite happy at the moment to leave this story as is, a few weeks ago the loose ideas for a continuation popped up in my brain and I have been mulling them over ever since - especially since the ideas would allow me to tie up a few loose ends and close some plot holes that a few of you have pointed out to me. If - and it is currently a pretty big IF - I do decide to continue the story, however, it will probably take me some time to get to as I have a few other projects I would like to finish first.

So, yeah. Thank you all again for reading this. I hope you enjoyed it. (My apologies as well for the long author's note.)


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